Our Retired Explorer
by Lli
Summary: Ye old COMPLETED ! Sh22 fic about teamwork seminars, stolen luggage, murder attempts, devious plots, bad French grammar and a cavity inducing portion of fluff. Break out the bubbly kids, this baby's done like dinner.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I don't own anything except the plot. And sometimes, not even that. Oh, and Sara, she's mine. Cookies to all of you who can spot the crossover characters!  
  
Prologue: I'm Leaving on A Shuttle Plane. Don't Know if I Want to Come Back Again...  
  
"It ain't fair! France! For free! Not only that, but to Paris, which makes it all the worse! And none of you evenlikeshopping!" Deidre's face, as it had been for the past week since she found out, was the epitome of dismay. "Do you have any idea how wasteful that is?"  
  
"First off kid, we're only going for free because France's President is a fan of Holmes' and wants to show us off. Secondly, if you want to sit around inside for a week listening to some dodgy new-age yuppies lecture you about teamwork at some stupid government seminar, be my guest. We'll barely have any free time. And just for the record, I'm not stowing you away in my luggage, so don't bother asking...again." Lestrade threw her suitcase onto the hoverbelt, looking at Deidre as she did so. "However," she smiled slightly. "If you're really, really good, and botherallmylovelycolleagues while we're gone, I'll bring you back some French underwear, or something."  
  
"Really!?" Deidre's expression brightened. "Why di'n't you say so in the first place! You mean it?"  
  
Wiggins gave Holmes and Watson a pained look.  
  
"Yeah, sure, scouts honour or whatever. Something scanty with a fancy label." Lestrade's lips quivered.  
  
Holmes gave Wiggins and Watson a pained look.  
  
Sadly interrupting Deidre's throws of ecstasy, Tennyson burst out of the crowds of Heathrow airport, beeping excitedly. Their shuttleplane was loading.  
  
Spurred into action, Holmes, Watson and Lestrade hurriedly saying their last goodbyes to the Irregluars, heading for the check in counter. Once they were safely (if slowly) past security, Holmes turned to Lestrade. "Must you egg her on, Lestrade? It isn't helpful."  
  
Giving him her best innocent grin Lestrade replied. "Moi, mon cher Monsieur Holmes? Surely you jest!" 


	2. Chapter One

Chapter One: La belle France  
  
It was springtime in France, and a glowing evening sun bathed the rolling green hills of the countryside in a warm golden blanket, the tips of the grass waving in a gentle breeze. Or, at least, Lestrade was sure this would be the case, had she been able to see the rolling hills of the countryside and not just the election campaign boards that stood shoulder to shoulder along the tracks of the bullet train.  
  
"I hate election time." She muttered.  
  
"Oh?" Holmes raised an eyebrow. "I would have thought you the type to glory in exercising your rights and making your voice heard, or some such romantic thing."  
  
"Well, yeah, sure, whatever, but it's always so depressing. Who to vote for? The slimy little man on the right, the slimy little man in the middle or the slimy little woman on the left? Either way, it's not much of a choice. Though personally, I tend to go for the slimy little woman on the left..."  
  
"I think you're doing the government an injustice. They work hard and do as good a job as is possible. No one is perfect. Yes, there have been mistakes but for the most part their work ahs been beneficial and it's due to that that our world is as good as it is now."  
  
"Oh yes, the world is so good right now. That's why half the world doesn't have clean water to drink and mothers are selling their children into slavery for the money to buy enough for dinner. Our country is as good as it is because we went around the world taking slaves and cheating and stealing money from everyone else. It took them forever just to legalize same-sex marriage, and that's just the tip of the iceberg. What about-"  
  
"Alright, alright Inspector." Watson held up his hands. "You win, but I still think you're being overly judgmental."  
  
Lestrade laughed, flashing him a grin. "And I still think you're bring overly optimistic."  
  
"I've been told it's a flaw of mine." Watson smiled back. "But here, have a sandwich, you haven't eaten since this morning."  
  
Lestrade's face darkened as she accepted the sustenance. "That's not my fault! If my zedding luggage hadn't been lost back at the airport, and I hadn't been running around in frickin' circles trying to get it back, I would've. And not only that, but now I have to go buy new clothes too. Heck, I have to buy neweverything... and Ihateshopping."  
  
Holmes chuckled. "Tch, here we are in the fashion capital of the world, or so Deidre tells me, and you, who is by all accounts female, doesn't want to go shopping. This is a strange world indeed." He kept his face admirably straight as he said this, but his lips turned up at the corners just ever so slightly as Lestrade turned her evil eye on him.  
  
"Zed off Holmes."  
  
"As you wish." Smiling amiably, he turned back to his honest-to-goodness paper newspaper (a novelty he picked up at a French souvenir shop).  
  
The rest of the train trip was passed in silence, Lestrade dosing, Watson surfing the net, and Holmes buried face-first in his paper. At the station they were by a government official, charming and polite, if a bit stiff, and a brand spanking new hover-limo, which took them to a shiny state of the art five star hotel.  
  
Lestrade made peace with Watson, decreeing that there was absolutely nothing wrong with rich politicians who decided to foot the bill for your travels, especially when you were traveling for something really stupid. Like, say, a teamwork seminar. And Watson told her they weren't stupid and she and Holmes could use it. She replied that yes, Holmes certainly could, but there was no reason to make all of them suffer. Holmes simply told her that it wasn't his fault if she couldn't keep up with him. But he said it with a smile and she wasn't offended, though she grumbled about arrogance.  
  
After having thoroughly explored her hotel room, a veritable cave of pastel wallpaper, potpourri and lush carpet, Lestrade ambled down to the dining room to join Holmes and Watson. Ignoring the raised eyebrows her rumpled clothes got, she quickly found her way to a small table in the back corner; perfectly situated so as to be able to watch everyone who entered and exited the room. Lestrade shook her head at the detective as she sat down.  
  
"Yes?" Holmes raises an eyebrow.  
  
"Just complementing your choice of seating, great view." Lestrade glanced over the menu innocently.  
  
He smiled; pleased, perhaps, that she noticed.  
  
Watson grinnned. "I tried to tell him a nice relaxing view of the gardens would be better on a holiday, but oh no, once paranoid, always paranoid."  
  
"There's a difference between being curious and being paranoid." Holmes sniffed as the waiter approached.  
  
"Est-ce que vous etes prêt pour faire vos ordres, m'sieurs, madmoiselle?"  
  
Holmes raised his eyebrows at Lestrade who nodded. "Oui, merci, je vais avoir le saumon avec citron et..." He turned to Lestrade waiting for her to tell him what she wanted. Instead, she turns to the waiter.  
  
"Et je vais avoir la crepe avec oeuf et fromage, s'il-vous-plait."  
  
The waiter smiled. And waited. So did the three at the table. The waiter's smile faultered.  
  
"Oh!" Lestrade put a hand over her mouth to hide her smile. "Oh no, pardonez moi, monsieur, il n'est pas- ah, il ne mange pas."  
  
"Ah." The waiter looked puzzled but he left politely, without asking.  
  
Watson chuckled under his breath. "Poor man. How embarrassing..." Lestrade grinned in agreement.  
  
Holmes however, cocked his head at Lestrade. "I didn't know you spoke French, Lestrade."  
  
"Really? I'm surprised." Her grin grew. "French, Spanish, and Italian. My father, Peter Lestrade, was a pure bred Englishman whatever and my mother was a mixed blood European. She was half Rom but she declared herself gadje when she came of age and left to go to New Zealand; somehow ending up back in France where she met my father. It was all very romantic, until he ran off with another woman. Anyway, in defiance of my father's rather W.A.S.P- ish beliefs, she taught me all the languages she knew." Lestrade finished with a smile. "Can't complain as they come in very handy now and then."  
  
However, at that moment their food arrived, and anything Holmes might have said was forgotten in favour of dinner.  
  
After having been fed and watered, Lestrade returned to her room, stripped off her clothes and flopped into bed, pausing for a moment to curse whatever zedhead stole her luggage. Her eyes were closed before she even hit her pillow, but open again just as quickly. A brick had just come crashing through the French doors, angled so as to land scarily close to her head.  
  
Wrapping herself in one of the many blankets, she grabbed her ionizer off the night table (she wasn't stupid enough to pack that in her luggage) and ran out onto the balcony. Three stories below her the swimming pool glistened silver under the moon. Encircling the pool, extensive gardens stood dark and silent, and there was no sign of her attacker.  
  
Lestrade shook her head. Probably some kids out on a dare. She'd tell room service in the morning... right now it was all she could do just to get back into bed.  
  
French phrases in order of appearance:  
  
Are you ready to make your orders, Sirs and Miss? Yes, thank you, I will have the salmon with lemon and... And I will have the crepe with egg and cheese, please. Oh no, sorry sir, he's not-ah, he won't be eating. 


	3. Chapter Two

Chapter Two: A Short,Wet, Interlude.  
  
If this were France, she would be sunbathing right now...  
  
Deidre peered out the classroom window into grey sheets of rain with sour look. If this didn't let up she'd get soaked just on the way to the hoverbus stop. Stellar. Blatantly ignoring the professor, she glanced across the room at the clock: half an hour left. She almost groaned aloud. It was time to take action. As inconspicuously as possible, she opened Graphicshop v15.6 on her screen, quickly rummaging through her bag for the stylus to her data pad, and settled down to doodle the class away.  
  
Not like she was missing much: the professor was talking about the legal system of the early 20th century. She could just ask Mr. Holmes when he got back.  
  
Now that she was properly occupied, the class passed quickly enough. The rain however, did not. True to form, she spent the bus trip home ringing water out of her clothes and trying not to get it on any of the other passengers. Not an easy feat on the crowded New London transit system.  
  
After fighting her way through the crowds to get off at the right stop, Deidre was pleasantly surprised to find the rain gone. Mind you, it didn't make her feel any less saturated. Busy bemoaning her sponge-like state, Deidre found herself unceremoniously upended onto her backside by a surprised looking woman, who hadn't been looking where she was going either.  
  
"Oof! Watch it, eh?" Her temper not improved by her damp clothes, Deidre glared up at the woman, picking herself up off the sidewalk, ignoring the proffered hand.  
  
The woman's expression quickly turned from apologetic to angry. "Watch it yourself, kid."  
  
"Oi! First off, I've got a name. And second, I ain't the mature adult 'ere. It's your fault for not being responsible!"  
  
"No, you're the misbehaving rebellious teenager, so it's obviously your fault, because as a mature adult I wouldn't play pranks like that." The woman was tall, she had almost thirty cm on Deidre, with straight dark brown hair and almond-shaped eyes to match. Hands on hips, she gave the impression of being very much in charge.  
  
Disliking her on the spot, Deidre ungraciously thought that she'd get along well with the Inspector. The both of them were absolute witches. She took this back however when she remembered the Inspector's promise of French underwear.  
  
"Prank?" Deidre responded, hand pressed over her heart, every inch the abused victim. "I'm an innocent school girl on 'er way home after a long, arduous day of putting 'er 'eart and soul into learning the 'istory of this wonderful country we call 'ome. An' now, I'm being accused of playing pranks simply because a clumsy adult decided to take advantage of my mental fatigue!"  
  
"Mental fatigue is right. What are you? A con artist?"  
  
Deidre decided to change gears. "Oo are you to be asking? I don't even know yer name."  
  
"Special Constable Akiko Morrison." SC Morrison pulled out a badge.  
  
"Ah." Deidre grimaced mentally. "One of those volunteer people. Well, thanks very much fer being ever so helpful around the neighbourhood. I'm sure we all appreciate being knocked on our arses by Yardie wannabes, much more prestigious then being knocked over by just any old bugger. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go tend to my failing aunt." Deidre brushed her self off and stuck her chin in the air.  
  
As she sidestepped the unimpressed officer she heard her mutter. "If she's had to deal with you on a regular basis, I'm surprised she's still alive at all."  
  
Bloody police, Deidre thought, all the bleeding same. 


	4. Chapter Three

Chapter Three: Watson Enjoys Being Not Quite So Moral and Honourable.  
  
Holmes sat cross-legged on his king-sized bed, silently praising 22nd century technology. His matress was a beautiful thing. If only he didn't have to leave it for that bloody teamwork seminar. He was the world's greatest detective, to allow himself a little arrogance, and he didnotneed teamwork seminars.  
  
Sighing the sigh of abject self-pity, he stood up and fetched his coat.  
  
Humming quietly to himself, he stepped out of his room, digging in his pockets for his ever-misplaced key card. If only they had normal keys these days: he could put them on a nice big brass ring and stick them to his mantel with a jack knife, along with his mail. Then he'd never loose them!  
  
With a quiet 'aha!' he pulled out his card with a flourish, only to jump back into his room as a metal cleaning trolley came zooming around a corner, nearly running him over.  
  
"Bleeding – "Holmes didn't bother finishing his sentence but hurriedly locked his door and ran up the corridor, even though he knew there would be no one around the corner. As usual, he was right, and the hallway was deserted. Frowning, he stepped into the elevator and went down to join Watson and Lestrade for breakfast.  
  
He found them sitting in the same table as he had chosen last night, chatting amiably. Lestrade wearing suspiciously clean-looking clothes for someone who had no luggage.  
  
"New clothes, Inspector?" Sitting down, Holmes nodded good morning to them.  
  
"Yeah, I got up nice and early and hit all the really cheap second- hand stores on the other side of town. I figured I'd start a new trend or something on this side of the city, where women don't wear shoes unless they look like they used to be an animal and have eight cm of heel on them." Lestrade grinned, proudly displaying rather unprofessional, green, pseudo-plastic sandals. "Mind you, even the second hand stores here are more fashionable then the most expensive ones back home."  
  
"Don't let Deidre hear you say that." Watson advised.  
  
"Mmm. So, you guys looking forward to a fun-filled, educational day of building towers with office furniture?" Lestrade waggled her eyebrows.  
  
"We won't actually have to do that, will we?" Looking pained, Holmes waved a waiter over.  
  
"Who knows." Watson responded. "But I wish you two luck with whatever it is you will be doing."  
  
"Whaddya mean you wishusluck. You'll be doing it too." Lestrade put in her order to the waiter, once again explaining that Watson wouldn't be eating.  
  
"Oh." Watson put on an innocent face. "Didn't I tell you? As a Yard- programmed compudroid, I already have all the teamwork training I need." His innocent face dropped, replaced by a huge grin. "I'm only here because the President wanted to meet me as well. But don't worry, I'll take lots of pictures wherever I go."  
  
His companions gaped.  
  
"And I always thought you were supposed to be an honourable, moral person, Watson. My childhood dreams are crushed." Lestrade stared at him.  
  
"Yes well, between the two of you I've had one too many 'Look! It's ridiculously foggy outside! But we've no food! Watson, you must go out and buy some!' tricks played on me not to take advantage of this." He grinned again as Holmes and Lestrade had the decency to look vaguely ashamed.  
  
"I can't believe someone didn't tell us this sooner!" Lestrade slouched in her chair. "How on Earth did we not know this...?"  
  
"Ah well. At least one of us will enjoy this trip" Holmes smiled wryly as the food arrived.  
  
"Actually," Lestrade sat up straight again, and taking a bite of her scrambled eggs. "This works out great! You'll have so much free time so you can go and buy Deidre's underwear for me. I doubt I'll have the time... or the inclination... once things get into full swing."  
  
Holmes choked on his crepe and Watson blinked.  
  
Looking hopeful, Lestrade continued. "Please Watson, I'd really, really appreciate it."  
  
"Absolutely not."  
  
Lestrade snapped her fingers. "Well, it was worth a try." 


	5. Chapter Four

Chapter Four: Negative Words.  
  
After watching Watson grab a taxi to the Louvre, Holmes and Lestrade were escorted, once again via hover-limo, to the large, new age Talleyrand Hall.  
  
"Lestrade, is the building supposed to be leopard print?" Holmes stood on the sidewalk, losing his hat as he craned his neck to look to the top of the bee-hive shaped building.  
  
"Apparently." Lestrade picked up Holmes' hat, sticking it back on his head as he turned to face her.  
  
"I fear for the world." Holmes rearranged the hat on his head, nodding his thanks.  
  
"You should see the Commonwealth swimming pool in Oxford. It's horrifying." Lestrade smiled. "No Deerstalker and Inverness today?"  
  
Holmes shook his head as they entered the building. "I'm saving them for meetings with the President. I'd rather not stick out like a sore thumb when I've the feeling I might be making a fool of my self.... My God. Whatisthat?"  
  
"Ah. Smart. Er, I think it's supposed to be art." Lestrade squinted at the oddly shaped, lime-greenthingprominently displayed beside the elevator.  
  
Holmes gave a shudder and stepped into the elevator. "Quick, get in, before it burns out our eyes."  
  
Lestrade rolled her eyes. "Drama queen."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Never mind."  
  
"One day you're going to have to give in and explain all your side- stream lingo."  
  
"Nuh uh. You're the world's greatest detective. You figure it out."  
  
"I wish you wouldn't keep bringing that up. I've been trying to forget, as I don't think teamwork seminars are a very Great Detective-like thing to do."  
  
"Ah. Sorry."  
  
"Quite alright."  
  
The elevator doors opened with a ding to reveal a mauve hallway and a compu-sign directing them to room 111.  
  
"Well," Lestrade said as they reached the right door. "This is our last chance to turn back before we're swallowed whole by the terror that is teamwork."  
  
"Drama queen."  
  
"Hey! I thought you didn't know what that meant."  
  
"Please Inspector, I am the world's greatest detective."  
  
Lestrade muttered something ungracious and opened the door.  
  
They were greeted by milling crowds of men and women in varying degrees of fancy dress.  
  
"Maybe sandals and a tee-shirt weren't such a good choice after all." Lestrade whispered.  
  
"I'm surprised." Holmes replied sarcastically.  
  
"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" A powder-faced brunette launched herself onto an unsuspecting Lestrade. "I haven't seen you since the Academy! How are you! Where are you working now? ... Who'sthis?"  
  
Lestrade blinked, then grinned. "Sara! Hi! Yeah, it's been a life. I'm doing good, Inspector for New Scotland Yard. How about you? This is Holmes. Sara, Holmes. Holmes, Sara Harlow."  
  
"Holmes? As in Sherlock Holmes? The dead one? Really?" Sara looked from Lestrade to Holmes then back. "That's right! There was something on the news a while back, but I thought it was just tabloid mud. Absolutely fantastic to meet you Mr. Holmes." She stuck her hand out. "Er... sorry about the dead comment."  
  
He shook it with a smile. "A pleasure."  
  
She grinned and turned back to Lestrade. "And it's Agent Sara Harrow, if you please, Beth. I got a position in violent crimes, FBI, along with a nice cubicle in the Hoover. But Inspector! Way to show us mortals up. Honestly!" Continuing to talk, she grabbed them each by the elbow, leading them to the front of the room to find seats as the MC took his place at the podium for the opening ceremony.  
  
The ceremony was characteristically dry, but mercifully brief, and soon the several hundred officers were split into groups and introduced to their instructor for the day.  
  
Lestrade and Holmes soon found themselves Sara-less, sitting on yoga mats, with about twenty other people, in a room down the hall from 111. At the front of the room Instructor Judy, a dyed red head in a short skirt and dangly earings, was telling them to stage a fifteen-minute conversation on the topic assigned to them. Using no negative words. This was to practice and encourage positive communication, apparently.  
  
"Right." Lestrade looked at the data pad handed to her, setting the timer affixed to the corner. "Our topic is... 'what did you have for breakfast?' Well, that's fascinating."  
  
"I had crepes for breakfast, but you already know that." Holmes stared off into space.  
  
"Yeah. I had... zed. You probably know what I had better then I do."  
  
"You had two scrambled eggs with fried tomato, veggie-bacon, and four slices of whole-grain toast. I would not say no to some cocaine right now."  
  
"Oh well that's positive. Cocaine screws your brains. Honestly, that's disgusting Holmes, how can you—"  
  
"Inspector Lestrade! That's not positive language at all! How many negative words was that? Three? Please, try to be a little bit more respectful. Mr. Holmes managed to make even cocaine sound positive, I'm sure you can too. If you bothered to try." Judy materialized behind Lestrade.  
  
"How on Earth is making cocaine sound positive a good thing? Zed! What—"  
  
"Please continue with theconversation, Inspector. I'll stay and help you when you hit a rough patch. I'm sorry for the inconvenience Mr. Holmes." Judy smiled at him as she marked something down on her data pad.  
  
Lestrade pressed her eyelids shut momentarily. "Right. So. I had scrambled eggs for breakfast."  
  
"I know. I was there. You also had orange pekoe tea with milk."  
  
"Yeah. It wasn't so—"  
  
"'Wasn't' Inspector? That doesn't sound very positive."  
  
Lestrade was almost homicidal when the lesson breaked. Holmes offered to buy her lunch as a peace offering; not that he had enjoyed having Judy make eyes at him anymore then Lestrade had enjoyed her pointless criticisms.  
  
However, food and drink proved wildly successful at restoring both Holmes' and Lestrade's senses of humour and he didn't regret spending the extra money. He didn't even mind that she spent the walk back talking about the many stupid things Sara and her had gotten up to during their training at the FBI Academy.  
  
However, just as they reached Talleyrand hall, a non-descript red van flew towards them at breakneck speed, swerving to try to hit them again when it missed the first time. It quickly turned away, vanishing into the heavy traffic, when they ducked into the building.  
  
"Second zedding time in 24 hours!" Lestrade brushed off her black pants in exasperation.  
  
"Pardon me?" Holmes frowned at her.  
  
"Someone threw a brick my hotel room's French doors last night, barely missed my head."  
  
"Why didn't you mention it? I was nearly bowled over by a cleaning trolley this morning."  
  
"Why didn'tyoumention it?" Lestrade put her hands on her hips.  
  
"Same reason as you I should think. It's hardly worth the bother. But now... as you know, I don't believe in coincidences. Someone is apparently trying to kill us, albeit sloppily. Obviously we're doing something right." Holmes smiled in satisfaction and rang for the elevator.  
  
"Yeah. But the question is, what exactly are we doing that's right?" Lestrade frowned in irritation. "I'd at least like to know what it's is I'm being done for."  
  
"Good question Lestrade. Where is Watson when you need him? The game is a foot! At the risk of sounding clichéd..." 


	6. Chapter Five

Chapter Five: Hungerford Market

Wiggins wandered through the Hungerford market with the air of someone who is completely satisfied. He was going out to dinner with Jaycee tomorrow night. Actually, this was, indirectly, why he was wandering through the market at all.

Deidre, the packrat, went to the market every weekend. Unfortunately, Maureen, her guardian, was sick and refused to set Deidre loose in a market alone. So Deidre had conned him into coming with her. And he had been in a good mood, due to Jaycee, and let her. So it worked out for everyone in the end, except Maureen who was still sick. But Deidre planned on buying her some tea on the way back, so that worked out all right as well.

The day was warm, and people bustled through the market good-naturedly jostling each other about. Over the hubbub he heard his name being shouted, and through the crowd came Deidre, weaving through the crowds like a redheaded eel.

"Wiggins! Oi! Breadhead! Wiggins!" She came to a huffing halt in front of him, clutching a familiar-looking luggage bag. "Lookit what I found!" Regaining her breath she waved said luggage about in front of his face.

"Yeah." He replied. "It's luggage. What am I missing?"

"It ain't just any old luggage, it's the Inspector's luggage!"

"You're space happy. Just cause it kinda looks like her luggage doesn't mean—"

"Yeah, and it's got her clothes and yardie badge in it." Deidre grinned. "I 'ave excellent contacts. Not that I wanted stolen luggage." She quickly amended when Wiggins began to frown. "It's just that when I worked that lay, I 'ung out with that kinda person. Though the guy 'oo gave it to me is a friend of a friend of a friend, and I'm thinkin' I might turn him in. 'Ee was quite the arse. But anyway, the point is I was lookin' for a new camera and 'ee said that 'ee 'eard I was 'anging about with Mr. 'Olmes and some yardie, so 'ee showed it to me thinkin' I might want it (that way 'e didn't 'ave to spend extra time selling the clothes and the badge). 'Course I did, too; just think of Lestrade's face when she comes 'ome! 'Ee said 'ee found it in an airport." Deidre made a face. "Along with several other people's wallets. 'Ee must 'ave stolen it before it got onto the plane or sommat. But the best part of all this is I filmed the 'ole shebang so I can get 'im done no matter what." She grinned.

Wiggins blinked, taking in all her babble with a straight face. "Don't you think she might need it?"

"Oh whatever. She's smart, or at least, Mr. 'Olmes thinks so, she'll be able to take care of things. Besides, it might come in useful. Y'never know."

"You are the most ridiculous person I've ever met. I just hope the Inspector doesn't draw and quarter you when she finds out." Wiggins rolled his eyes skyward.

"Don't be silly. She won't know it was me. I'll leave at Mr. 'Olmes' flat anonymously or something. That way we can all see her when she finds it." Deidre's smile grew. "But anyways, let's get 'ome."

"Don't forget Maureen's tea."

"Oh. Right!" Deidre twitched her nose. "Well, come on then. We 'aven't got all day. Chop chop!" With that, she strolled off through the crowds, leaving larger Wiggins to fight his way through.

There are times when Wiggins wished he wasn't quite so polite.


	7. Chapter Six

Chapter Six: Butler and Butler.  
  
SC Morrison meandered along the sidewalk enjoying the sunlight. For a change, there was no one needing help today. No old ladies with shopping, no kids with dropped ice cream...it was kind of boring, actually.  
  
As she walked farther, however, she noticed a hover-lorry with the logo "Butler and Butler Movers" plastered on it in dark green. Seems the old DeVille place had finally been sold. Ghastly old birdcage of a thing. If it weren't for the movers she'd have thought it an investment, stock and bonds sale, or whatever.  
  
Two people got out of the van: a bald man the size of a bleeding house and a Britney Spears look-alike. Morrison blinked. Odd choice for movers. The couple, however appeared to be completely competent, giving her a glance out of the corner of their eyes every once in a while.  
  
Eventually Morrison got bored, shrugged and walked on. She made a mental note to drop by and introduce herself to the new neighbours later.  
  
Watson met up with an oddly cheerful Holmes and a waffling Inspector, and by waffling he meant quite volatile, for dinner at the hotel.  
  
"So! How was your first day?" Watson seated himself, careful not to get in anyone's view of the door. Subconsciously his companions thanked him.  
  
"Je returnerais jamais! C'etait terrible! Ben, c'etait plus mauvais que seulement terrible. Cette femme est une menace de societe! Et ca fais pas de difference comment she shoves herself at you ella no es mucha bonita! Y l'auto!" In her frustration, Lestrade change languages as one would change gears.  
  
Holmes gave Lestrade a dry look. "Could you please confine yourself to only one language per sentence, my dear Inspector? And which woman are you calling a menace to society, Dallaway or 'Instructor Judy'? "  
  
"Both! Dallaway and her incessant gossip nearly drove me insane." Lestrade visibly bristled at the memory of her partner for the day's 'cultural event' (i.e. cooking). It didn't help that the kitchen had never been one of Lestrade's more favoured environments.  
  
Watson tsked. "I'd say Holmes has already beat her to it, Inspector." He smiled at her withering glare. "But what car were you talking about?"  
  
"A red hover-lorry that tried to run us down, twice, outside of Talleyrand Hall." Lestrade's expression brightened somewhat as a waiter brought their food.  
  
"It would appear, my dear Watson, that the game is afoot, albeit messily. Someone is trying to kill us." Holmes said between mouthfuls of roasted duck. "Last night someone through a brick at Lestrade through her room's French doors and this morning someone tried to run me down with a cleaning trolley outside my room.  
  
"And you know what I think of coincidences." He added when he saw Watson's dubious expression.  
  
Watson nodded. "True, but if their trying to kill you, there are much faster, and cleaner, ways..."  
  
Holmes was silent for a second. "Well yes, but maybe the objective isn't to actually kill us."  
  
Lestrade frowned, looking up from her soup. "If they're not actually trying to kill us then why bother. For publicity? General dislike, us being law, them being criminals? Is it Moriarty, maybe?"  
  
Holmes shook his head. "No, nothing is less Moriarty's style then this. He is an artist and therefore glories in his audience. If this was Moriarty, we would know. And just killing us because we work for the Yard doesn't hold any water because any criminal with half a brain would just blow up the entire hall while the seminar was underway. Many more birds with only one stone. Publicity however... there could be something in that. We shall have to wait and see."  
  
"Lovely." Lestrade replied, not bothering to control her sarcasm.  
  
French/Spanish translation:  
  
"I'm never returning! It was terrible! No, it was worse then terrible! That woman is a menace to society! And it deosn't make a difference how she shoves herself at you, she's still not pretty! And the car!" 


	8. Chapter Seven

Disclaimer: Still I owneth not Sh22, nor Friends, nor Under Pressure (yes, it's named after the song), nor even The X-Files. (Let's play spot the crossovers!)

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay m'dears, I am really very lazy. But the chapter is extra long to make up for it. And! A brand-spanking new original character! Who might actually have a part:)I promise he won't be a jerk the whole time. Oh, just a warning, I'm taking Spanish again in school, so there will be more of that to come. (And of course, more of Canada's trusty second language.) And that's the end of this excessively long and pointless author's note.

Chapter Seven: Under Pressure.

It was hot. Excruciatingly so. Lestrade tugged at her T-shirt's collar and ran a hand through her hair. Holmes didn't think she had the right; it was he, after all, who was being polite and wearing presentable, and therefore too much, clothing. Though truthfully, his conservative clothing was more due to when he was from then out of respect for the unspoken dress code of their colleagues.

Holmes sighed, resisting the urge to loosen his tie, as Talleyrand Hall came into view. The atrocious leopard print was just as garish as it had been yesterday. Shaking his head he returned to his hand-held and finished reading the news. He might as well get something productive done today.

His reading was interrupted by a red streak flashing in his peripheral vision. He turned, recognizing the red hover-lorry from yesterday. "Lestrade! Get down!"

Lestrade's reflexes responded instantly, pulling her head down under the cover of her arms as the lorry slammed into the side of the car. Turning slightly, it rammed the limo once more before zipping off into the rush-to-work traffic.

Lestrade's head popped up, her temper flaring visibly. "Those bloody zed-headed sons of-"

"Inspector."

"-why in the seven bleeding hells are they so sh-"

"Lestrade."

"-can't they just fu-"

"_Inspector Lestrade_." Holmes gave her a withering look. "As much as I admire your vast collection of vulgar phrases, I am really not in the mood for it. And it is not solving anything except your desire to throw a tantrum."

"Which is good enough a reason for me." And with that Lestrade clambered out of the limo, starting her tirade up again, this time in French, much to the dismay of a passing mother who hurried her wide-eyed children out of earshot.

The appearance of Sara, flying out of the Talleyrand's front doors, made Lestrade's litany come to an abrupt halt as the distraught FBI agent flung her arms around Lestrade's neck, babbling. Holmes was not sure which was worse. At least Lestrade had been semi-coherent.

As he listened to the ridiculous things coming out of the brunette's mouth he wondered how on Earth Lestrade managed to find these people... she wasn't anywhere near as featherbrained as this, not even that time on the Halbriener case when he'd dragged her out of bed at three am to go to Cornwall.

How had she put up with such silliness all through the academy? She wasn't the type to put up with anything more taxing then mismatched socks. He tsked quietly to himself. Maybe Sara had simply gone soft with age.

"Sara." Lestrade vainly tried to disentangle herself from the vaporous woman. "Sara, please. We're fine."

Holmes grumbled incoherently at her, just to show he did not appreciate being spoken for.

She ignored him in favour of soothing Sara.

"...oh Lizzie, you could have been killed..."

Lestrade sighed and rolled her eyes. "Sara. No one cares. Stop it."

Abruptly, Sara pulled away from Lestrade, a pouting expression on her face. "Oh Lizzie you ruin all my fun. I **never** get to play the damsel in distress anymore. I always have to be all macho to keep the guys away from my arse, not to mention my upcoming promotion..."

Lestrade ruffled Sara's hair affectionately, seemingly unfazed by this sudden change of attitude. "Well maybe if you hadn't been such a ditz yesterday I would have let you cry all over me today."

Sara looked unapologetic. "It got me excellent marks from Timothy-the-sexist-instructor. Oh, but darling, you are alright aren't you?"

Lestrade giggled. "Yeah, we're fine... OH! Holmes, you didn't get a look at the driver did you?"

Holmes, smoothly covering his surprise at Sara's sudden character flip, looked down his nose at Lestrade. "No. Not that you seem at all interested. The license plate was from Dordogne however. VPTY154. Jaques' Automobiles."

Lestrade nodded to herself. "I'll do a check up on it during lunch."

A small, mousy man stuck his head out the doors of Talleyrand Hall. "Hey! Sara, you and you friends better hurry it up, you'll be late."

Sara's face darkened. "Get lost Tom, we'll come when we want to."

The man's southern accent thickened as he glared back at her. "Ah'm just tryin' to be helpful, ya little –"

"Tsk tsk, what's that you were going to call me? Wouldn't want to have to report you to Skinner for un-cooperative behaviour!"

Tom slammed the door shut.

"Don't look at me like that, he was trying to get me to sleep with him an hour into my first day. And I was being professional, no ditzy-damsel behaviour at all."

Lestrade muttered something vulgar in French.

Holmes, in an attempt to redirect the conversation onto something other then women's lib (a subject that was bound to get him into trouble), commented that perhaps they should follow Tom's suggestion, however unpleasant the man may be?

Resignedly, the malcontent women agreed, Lestrade flashing him a smile when he held the door for them. Holmes smiled to himself. Emancipated or not, they still liked chivalry.

Sara left them on the second floor in search of Tom, having first practiced her I-will-never-forgive-you-you-chauvinistic-pig glare on Holmes and Lestrade to make sure it was firmly in place. Holmes turned an inquisitive face to Lestrade as the elevator doors closed.

"She wanted to be an actor before she started with the FBI. And, kinda like someone else I know, she still fancies putting on characters. She's really very intelligent and together, under all the different acts."

Holmes refrained from arguing that he wasn't_ nearly_ that bad as he knew he would sound like a petulant child. He opted instead for an intelligent sounding "Ah."

Following the directions of the compu-sign (schedules not having been handed out as an exercise in flexibility) Lestrade and Holmes meandered their way to room 990. Upon opening the door they were greeted with the uninspiring sight of rows of office cubicles, complete with too much furniture stuffed inside them and a pair of confused looking feds.

The Instructor was an eclectic looking woman with straight blonde hair and a clean, pretty face. She smiled at them when they came in. "Hi! I'm Phoebe! Your instructor for this class! I was just telling everyone the assignment, so if you'll just grab a cubicle...um...?"

"Inspector Lestrade, and Mr. Holmes." Holmes waved a hand to illustrate the point.

"Oh cool! You're British? That's so neat! I had a friend who was going to marry a British woman! Your accents are great! Oh yeah, so just find am office box and I'll keep going." She grinned at them.

Lestrade and Holmes, faltering smiles sliding on and off their faces, made their way to the back of the room to an empty cubicle.

"Ok! So! As I was saying! What we'll be doing is building towers out of office furniture! That's why there's so much stuff in these cubicles! I'm sorry you're all so cramped. Anyway! You'll be marked mostly on teamwork, of course, which means attitude towards each other, language, work ethic, la, la, la! But also on the stability of the tower! Ok? Good! So! 3! 2! 1! Go!"

Holmes and Lestrade looked at each other in horror.


	9. Chapter Eight

Wooho! Yes, thats right, an update! I was trolling through all my old documents, found this story, and my crap plot outline (plots just really are not my forté), and thought: well why the heck not? So, carrying on in the time honoured tradition of utter randomness masquerading as a proper story, here's chapter 8! or... 9 if you count the prologue. Either way, I hope you enjoy it. There's more to come. Lli

Chapter Eight: Lestrade's Hitherto Unknown Architectural Genius.

It was warm, the sun was shining, youth were frolicking, dogs gambolling. No matter what twist the cynical outlook of Holmes would have put on it, in Watson's books, the day was pretty much perfect. He walked along, with as much spring in his step as was possible for a large metal compudroid, through the electronics district, carelessly window shopping. He had plans for a few upgrades. And, maybe, even an appointment at the Motherboard and Co. Spa? On a day like this: who knows! Alas, his happy musings were brought to screeching halt when he caught sight of Holmes' face flashing across a display of new vid-screens.

"This just in: Mysterious attempts made on the lives of the president's British guests. English extremists suspected. Details on demand." Watson goggled, plugging into his internal wireless.

The article went on to give a detailed account of the red hover-lorry, which, Watson learned, had come back for another go. The news anchor even briefly alluded to Holmes' renegade tea trolley and the brick through Lestrade's window. It added that the New French National Police investigators believed it to be the work of extremist English political party Our Island in a wild attempt to prove their burgeoning strength. Pierre LaMensange, the outspoken and enigmatic leader of Notre France, the radical rogue party in the upcoming election, had this to say: I believe this is a shocking example of the state into which our country has fallen! If such base and amateur attempts on the lives of even honoured guests of our president cannot even be prevented, who is safe?!?!!

He went on for several more minutes of patriotic and rhetorical tirade but Watson logged out and stood gaping at the pesky vid-screen display that had so completely ruined his peaceful day off. Red hover-lorries and bricks were all well and good discussed over breakfast, but they were another thing entirely when appearing as breaking national news.

Unsure what to do (should he call and interrupt their seminar? Even though the news report said no more than they already knew?), Watson sat down on the first convenient bench to consider this. It occurred to him: now how on earth did News France get a hold of this story? Watson could not see either Holmes or Lestrade putting in a complaint to the police (or anyone for that matter).

He shook his head and continued on his way to the spa, deciding the news could wait until dinner. He stopped and smiled a little; if he was lucky they wouldn't have watched the news since morning and he could shock them a bit. That wasn't, after all, something he got to do very regularly.

And now, returning to our dynamic duo and their architectural forays:

They stood, admiring the creation before them. A masterpiece! A marvel!

"You... umm ... you weren't supposed to take apart the cubicle walls." Pheobe stood beside them looking vaguely concerned.

"Yeah, well, it's a tower isn't it? It's supposed to be tall." Lestrade crossed her arms as the wheeled chair balancing on a precarious tepee of cubicle walls teetered dangerously.

"And honestly my dear, what sort of height were we to gain from a vid-screen and a few minor secretarial items?" Holmes waved dismissively at the collection of large, solid looking (and now very dented) old e-file storage containers, a bent stand up lamp, and half a dozen digital styluses and disc-clips strewn at their feet.

"Erm... " said Pheobe. "Well... well, at least you guys, like, worked together... I guess. I mean, it must have been a job and a half getting those walls out of their magnetic holder slot thingies..."

"Without question." Holmes deadpanned. And Lestrade didn't think it necessary to add that she had simply pulled them up in a bout of frustration.

It was lucky for them, Holmes had pointed out at the time, that the room was L-shaped. Therefore, they were, for the most part, out of sight for the duration of the session, and her destruction could be put down to creative thinking, instead of violent tendencies. She had replied huffily that she hadn't seen him rush to put them back in.

Pheobe took one last look and scribbled on her digi-pad. "You guys can go, I guess. Next activity's not until after lunch. Have an awesome day!" Her grin was back up as she waved and moved on the next couple.

"Well, if nothing else, Lestrade, this has at least brought us together in our apparent inability to do as instructed."

"I don't know what you're talking about, my dear Holmes. No one ever said anything about the walls. Besides, we've always been of one mind when it comes to orders from above: I tell you what to do, you completely disregard me, and then, following your terrible example, I completely disregard Greyson. But, more importantly: whaddya say to French for lunch, huh?"

"A truly original idea..." Holmes rolled his eyes as the elevator sank towards the lobby. "And I don't _completely_ disregard your instructions. Sometimes, if they're very good, I even listen when you give them."

"Gee darn Holmes. You sure do know how to flatter a girl..."


	10. Chapter Nine

Yeah, so, totally pulling the classic Lestrade in a dress doo dad in this chapter. I know it's been done about a billion times, but hey! this is a for fun fic and I've always wanted to do it!

Lli

Chapter Nine: Purple People

The light was dim, figures skulked suspiciously between rickety displays and garish colours. Their voices were manic, and their frenzied words garbled into frightening cacophony by the thick glass.

Lestrade stared through at them, horrified. Thank gods for the glass, she thought. All that separated Her from Them. Yes, thank gods for the glass.

"You promised." Holmes elbowed her delicately, as though she were already contaminated. She glared at his reflection in the window.

"Mergleumph." Was all she could bring herself to say. By this, she really meant: Towers of office furniture and now this? How am I meant to cope? Please will you be my knight in kinda, really rusty armour?

"See you at dinner, then shall I?" He doffed his cap, grinning, and positively swaggered off down the sidewalk, leaving her all alone in a cruel, cruel world.

Lestrade gnashed her teeth at his retreating form. But, she straightened her spine, looking once more through the glass. Rouge! Read the red cursive of the neon sign.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed through into the boutique with all the fury that she might bust a mafia ring. If she could build towers of office furniture she could buy Deidre underwear, by zed!

A haughty sales woman gave her rumpledess a caustic once over and moved on to meatier prey. Well, thought Lestrade, at least I won't be interrupted. She looked around, assessing the battle field, her subconscious snapped on its surgical gloves with a practiced flourish.

"C'est du connerie ceci..." She muttered to herself, holding up what looked to be three pieces of pink yarn and giving them her most horrified grimace. But, our valiant Inspector waded on; through pink feathers, black leather and spikes, sequins in hitherto unknown colours, looking for that perfect, Deidreish pair of panties. "Bloody kid had better appreciate this..."

Two hours later, Lestrade dragged her weary, knicker- beaten body to the checkout counter. That same skeletal saleswoman wrapped up two pairs of panties in tissue paper and placed them in an extraordinarily conspicuous bag (which Lestrade had no qualms about stuffing hastily into her own rucksack) and gave her the receipt.

Two pairs? Our dear readers might ask. Well, sometimes, our Inspector isn't quite as infallible as she likes to pretend. And really, they were such a lovely shade of purple...

Once back at the hotel, she made a beeline for the dining room. Those old biddies can stuff it if I look worse than usual, she thought. I need to eat, and I need to do it now.

True to form, Holmes and Watson were holed up in the back, watching the flow around them.

"Success?" Asked Watson cheerfully. "You certainly took your time!"

"I hope you had a lousy day." Was Lestrade's gracious reply.

"Actually," replied Watson, deciding to get straight to the point. "I had a very informative one. Someone has been leaking information about you two."

He smiled (but just a bit) to see them snap to attention like reprimanded school children. Their response to the newscast was predictable but he enjoyed it no less.

"Bloody zedding--- " Were Lestrades opening remarks.

Holmes scored marginally higher with a profound: "Well, well well..." But he graciously let Lestrade's swearing play solo until the food came, before taking over with something of a little more substance.

"I believe you may have been quite right with your suggestion of a publicity stunt, Lestrade. Watson, what do we know about Notre France and Mr. LaMensange?"

"Well," Watson paused to scan his search results. "Notre France has been around sometime, since the late 2080s, after the climate change crisis was dealt with and France became a multi-party democracy. But they've always been quite a marginal party, no voter base, very extreme, that sort of thing. However, in the last few years they've been garnering strength with the anti-immigration supporters. Patriotic to an almost a frightening degree. Now, it appears they're quite the dark horse in the upcoming election. Bit of a surprise for the entrenched parties, let me tell you. As for Mr. LaMensange, well, he is, in actual fact, Corsican, but educated at Oxford... not a very patriotic thing to do now is it? Decent lawyer it seems, nothing overly remarkable, but then, there doesn't seem to be much about him available."

"Huh." Waving her fork to enunciate, Lestrade frowned. "And they say Our Island is behind it? How'd they come up with that one? Last time I checked we weren't on _their_ hit list as well. Did you piss someone off that I don't know about Holmes? I mean, we have an election coming up too. This sort of zed isn't gonna win them any votes." She stared at her plate in consternation.

Holmes glanced at her thoughtfully. "Possibly, my dear, possibly. But, lest we begin to conjecture without the facts..."

"Yeah, I know, I know!" But she caught his smile just before it vanished and didn't get too terribly mad.

The next morning was yet another beautiful cliché of fabulous French weather. Lestrade wriggled deeper into her sheets, stretching herself out, the spitting image of a lazy Sunday. No seminar today, oh ho no! But then the satisfied look faded and she remembered why. Ah yes, hobnobbing with the President. And guess who was gonna play the wallflower? Oh how thrilling.

But then again... She sat up in bed, raising an eyebrow and peering about the room in a disquietingly Holmesian manner.

"Huh huh... " She began hunting for the purple knickers. "Just let them try and ignore me! I am woman! Hear me roar... or something like that... man, I need to get more sleep..."

Holmes and Watson were waiting in the lobby with that same stiff official as met them in the beginning. They were both valiantly denying the soaring temperatures (though for Watson, this wasn't a terrible sacrifice) wearing the complete Victorian get up. Lestrade shook her head fondly.

"Dear me, Inspector, aren't you looking lovely today?" Watson offered her his arm, and she grinned at him.

Her hair was up, her eyelashes were darker, her throat and shoulders were exposed, and the rest of her was covered, though how well was up for debate, by something delicate and red. Holmes gaped by raising an eyebrow.

"A dress, Inspector? Does the President realise he's so affected you?"

"And good morning to you too, Holmes. How do you know it's for him? One shouldn't conjecture without the facts!" That's right buddy, just stew on that one for a bit, why dontcha. She gave him a grin too, and looped her other arm through one of his, as they walked out to the limo. Wallflower? No way bucko.

C est du connerie ceci...

This is ridiculous/utter foolishness... (though, leaning more to the expletive side of utter foolishness.)


	11. Chapter Ten

Unabashed fluff coming up. That is all. Alicia.

Chapter 10: Whining and Dining

The President's home was high above the skyline of Paris. Leaning out over the balcony railing, Lestrade could see almost the entire city. And had an irrational belief that almost the entire city could see up her skirt.

''Watch out that you don't fall.''

Lestrade turned with a disparaging eye on the good-intentioned speaker. It was a man, about her own age, with a face Deidre would describe as ''goo-worthy''. In Lestrade's books this would have been all the more reason to disparage, but, then again, he also happened to be the President's son.

''Nah,'' she replied, leaning out a little farther. ''My balance is alright.''

(Bit of an understatement, thought Holmes as he and President Marc DuPontneuf passed.)

''You are Inspector Lestrade, are you not? I am Luc. The—''

''Yeah, I know who you are.'' She wasn't interested in status flogging. ''Your English is pretty good, did you go to school abroad?''

''Yes, actually: Oxford. '' He smiled sheepishly. ''I must say, I am rather glad you are here. I did not think there would be anyone to talk to. There usually isn't, at this type of thing.''

Great. Now I'm the zedding babysitter. Serves me right for putting on a show. Outwardly, Lestrade smiled sympathetically. ''Not a Holmes fan like your dad then?''

''Oh, I have got nothing against him, but I am not like my father, no. But if I understand correctly, you are the reason behind his return? How on earth...''

Luc was intelligent and witty and appreciative, it'd been a while since anyone had paid her any attention of the sort (Moriarty does not count, she thought fiercely) so she let herself laugh along with him. Eventually, however, there came a marked decent into intimations and suggestive eyebrow waggling. Oh just classic, she thought before bolting to the snack table, lest she said something really, inexcusably, rude.

''You've struck up quite the acquaintance, I see.'' Watson passed her a biscuit as they took a breather in the corridor.

''Ha! Well, you know me, I'm just such a schmoozer. Zed, he's starting rub, though: gone all come-hither on me.'' Lestrade shrugged. ''But vaguely better than sitting in the corner, I guess.''

''My dear, in that get up, I hardly think anyone would let you sit anywhere. Speaking of which, you and your little friend are quite the distraction. Poor Holmes looks about ready to knock out a few of your young beau's teeth.'' He gave her a look that said quite clearly: yes, that's right, I know something you don't!

Lestrade was unimpressed. She'd been hearing this one more and more often in the weeks before they left New London. ''Yeah, uh huh, sure Watson. Pull the other one, why dontcha? The man's a popsicle.''

''Have it your way then, Beth.''

Watson purposefully dropped her first name and, looking mysterious, wandered off. When she returned to the balcony, Luc was nowhere in sight. But, true to Watson's prediction, his absence was more than adequately made up for by a string of dashing French officials, most of them pushing sixty.

Geeze, these guys could charm the tea out of a teabag. Duly impressed, if not entertained, Lestrade turned away from someone with a polite excuse, when there was a hand on her elbow and she was back out in the corridor.

''Holmes! Had enough yet?''

''Hell, Lestrade, he's about as interesting as overcooked haddock. Without salt.''

''I.e. not at all?''

''Brilliant deduction, how do you do it?'' He rummaged in his pockets, unconsciously searching for the cigarettes that were no longer there. ''Any time you want to leave, that would be alright with me.''

''Good to know I have your permission.'' Rolling her eyes, Lestrade handed him her wine glass. ''It's the next best thing to a smoke.''

He nodded his thanks, equally surprised that she had realised what he was doing, and that he had been doing it all.

''Just think,'' she continued ''after this, all that teamwork zed'll be a piece of cake.''

''Oh, don't remind me.'' He grimaced, swigged, and, straightening his Inverness with the air of a dueller whose sword has just been broken, stepped back out.

Lestrade leaned against the dark wood panelling and made a face at the opposite wall. Bloody Watson, she thought, putting ideas in my head.

The door creaked to get her attention, as Holmes poked his head back out. ''By the way, Lestrade, did I mention that you look excellent in red?'' Oh ho, not expecting that, now were you! said the grin he gave her before he disappeared again.

Lestrade pulled a muscle in her jaw from gaping. ''You think you know a person!'' She said to the empty hall and shot the last of her wine.

Now, for those of us who aren't just here for the fluff, it's not until our three valiant heroes make to drive off into the sunset that things get exciting. Surrounded by what Lestrade thought were enough guards to take on the Imperial Death Star, they came out the door after an evening of exquisite food and excellent opportunities to practice rusty French skills, if not much else. They were greeted by an enthusiastic round of ionizer fire.

Flattening herself to the ground, Lestrade peered through the ankles of their guard. She reached automatically for her ionizer and cursed, remembering its absence. Holmes saw her furious expression and grimaced in commiseration. Canes, extendable or not, just weren't all that hot against snipers. But, the guards were firing back with a relish almost worthy of her, and so she contented herself with scanning roofs.

The attack stopped as suddenly as it started, and soon there was nothing left but smoking tarmac and the dirt down her front. Brushing herself off as she stood, Lestrade opened fire verbally, covering everything from their assailant to smelly French cheeses. Holmes and Watson talked amongst themselves, waiting for her to run out of breath, while the guards set about all but shoving them into the hover-coach.

A few blocks later, Lestrade finished up with a solid: ''Well, ZED.'' And exhaled noisily, to let them know she was quite done.

Holmes took the opportunity to ask if she was hurt, was grateful she wasn't , and pretended not to notice Watson giving her knowing looks from behind his back.


	12. Chapter Eleven

I was definetly listening to Kate Bush/Harry and the Potters (what does this say about my taste?) while writing the last few chapters, so I'm sorry if they've gone completely whack. They kinda have that affect on people... Also, this page doesn't seem to like putting in any of my page breakers, so, when we abruptly switch scenes... there's a breaker there in spirit. And hurrah for more cross overs! Also, it seems I've got a continuity fudge up. I started with the President of France and somewhere along the line he turned into the Prime Minister. These bloody countries with both! Ha, anyway, gone back and hopefully fixed it all. Just in case you were wondering... blah blah blah

ps. more fluff.

Chapter Eleven: Catch and Release

Sitting at what was to be their last midnight snack in Paris, our fearsome threesome mulled over the day's events.

''Ok. So: brick, tea trolley, red hover lorry, red hover lorry again, Rouge!, ionizer attack.'' Lestrade ticked off their near-death experiences on her fingers. ''Am I missing anything here?''

Her companions shook their heads mutely.

Holmes was stretched out so far, he was only just barely on his seat. He was also frowning so hard, Lestrade almost believed his face _would_ get stuck like that.

''Anything you'd like to share with the class, Holmes?''

When he stayed silent, Watson threw his two cents in. ''Are we sure it's not Our Island? I mean, we've been attacked without knowing why before. Could it not be—''

''No, I don't think so.'' Holmes cut him off. Lestrade gave him a consoling pat on the hand by way of apology. ''None of those bullets, or blasts, or whatever one calls them, came close to hitting us. Now, I realize that all the ''bad guys'' of this day and age seem to have terrible aim, but it's not that awful. The shooter was relatively close. Clearly, someone is trying not to kill us while trying to kill us.''

His companions blinked.

''Come again Holmes? Are you on something I don't know about? If you're doing illegal substances again, I dunno if Greyson'll survive the apoplexy...''

''Oh, do be serious Lestrade. To being with, the solution I used was well within legal limits, and secondly, how else to explain this? Actually killing us would cause too many unpleasant consequences. Playing at it, however, gives a rallying point, a reason to get up in arms. As our charming Mr. LaMensange is doing so competently. Do you follow me?''

It's all I seem to be good at these days, Lestrade thought grumpily. ''Yeah, yeah. I getcha. And I know you think the Our Island thing is just misdirection, but could there be ties?'' She said this mostly to cheer Watson up. ''I mean, if Mensange was in Britain for uni, could there ... er...oh, never mind, I dunno where I'm going with this at all. Though, check this out: Luc DuPontneuf went to Oxford too. Weird coincidence, no?''

''And what does Mr. DuPontneuf have to do with any of this?'' Holmes's voice went cold and Watson tsked under his breath.

''Oh, both of you, give over. Who's being silly now? I was just saying. After all, everyone knows what you think about coincidences.''

''Be that as it may, I also do not believe in such blatant foreshadowing.''

Fair enough, Holmes, fair enough. And so, we shall leave them in peace for the remainder of the night, and fast forward to the next morning.

Basking in the sun, Watson, still grinning in an infuriatingly self-satisfied manner at his escape from the seminar, moseyed off to see Paris's many Monets. Squinting belligerently into that self same sun, and not smiling in any manner, Holmes and Lestrade boarded their hover coach one last time.

''I am so _unbelievably_ glad this is our last day.'' Lestrade let her head fall back and closed her eyes.

''My dear, you wound me. Have you not enjoyed my amazing culinary genius and unrivaled ability to use positive words?''

She snorted with laughter. ''Who wouldn't! But I can enjoy both of those from the comfort of your living room. Indeed, my dear, they have been my constant companions, these past months...'' She'd put on an awful fakey British accent, and chortled to see him wince.

''Well, I see I shall have to have you over to redesign 221, to return the favour. ''

''Mm, yes, do.''

Sarah was waiting for them at the coffee bar. They both shot back black coffee like it was going out of style, before asking after the day's activities.

''They want to go out with an emotional bang, say my inside sources, so we're doing 'trust workshops'.''

''Trust... what?'' Holmes reached for more coffee.

''Never you mind.'' Sarah wagged a finger severely. "Actually... I ... don't know anything else.'' She gave Lestrade a peck on the cheek and went off in search of her pardner.

Twenty minutes later, they were standing resignedly in a room that looked exactly like all the others, but wasn't because it was at least four floors higher up.

''So...just to make sure I understand this correctly, you fall backwards. I catch you. That's all? No more? There isn't some sort of politically correct way in which I am supposed to do this? Or...''

''Nope. You catch me. And then, I catch you. So that we can trust each other if we ever, y'know, get that urge go around falling over backwards...'' Shrugging, Lestrade turned her back on him and fell.

And, still looking bemused, he caught her. ''Though, honestly, Lestrade, I've caught you before. Couldn't that make me exempt from this foolishness?''

She could feel his shirt buttons dig into her scalp as she looked up at his face. ''What? Where? When?''

''Well, how else do you think you got out of the Yard's computer with all those nanobots inside of you?''

She blinked, but recovered quickly. With a hand on her heart she warbled. ''He carried me out: it must be love!''

''Oh, get off me, you ridiculous woman.''

She hung there a moment longer, biting her lip. ''But, you know... thanks, yeah?'' It came out quietly and she felt him shrug a 'you're welcome' as she got to her feet.

It didn't take long for this activity to degenerate in to ridiculousness, however. It was no longer: can you catch me? But: can you catch me while doing a pirouette? Or: can you catch me, flip me over your shoulder and side kick someone in the face? The instructor caught them when they started in on can you catch me if I fall from somewhere really high above you, like say, that cabinet?

Looking unperturbed, she stared at them down over her square spectacles and pointed them towards the next activity. ''I've definitely seen better.'' Was all she said, brushing a brave hair back up into her rather severe bun. Lestrade and Holmes were impressed.

The next activity was a tight rope and a blindfold. Lestrade pshawed! as Holmes covered her eyes.

''You don't need to help me on this one Holmes. I've definitely got it under control.'' She kicked off her boots before stepping up and beginning to cart-wheel, back flip, and generally show off up and down the rope.

As she reached the end however, she caught herself thinking about being carried all the way through the Yard and stumbled. Holmes caught her hand to steady her, and let her keep hold of it as she walked back along to get her boots.

''Got it all under control, have you?''

''Secretly, I just wanted to hold your hand.''

''You're ridiculous Lestrade.''

''Ah, my broken heart...'' But neither of them bothered letting go of each other, and, somewhere, standing far away in front of water lilies, Watson smiled smugly to himself, for no reason whatsoever, that he could discern.

Away off in New London, it was raining and cold. Deidre, Wiggins and Tennyson sat at Maureen's living room table wading through Shakespeare, Economics and Calculus, respectively.

''Bet the weather's just peachy in Paris.'' Deidre grumbled, fed up with Helena and Hermia for the moment.

''Ah, give it up. They get back tonight.'' Wiggins and Tennyson buried themselves in their e-books, leaving Deidre no choice but to follow suit.

But, just when they thought they were safe, Deidre's head was back up. ''I mean, at least they ain't been on the news, or anything. That's a good sign right? Means the inspector ain't blown up anything too important...''

Tennyson and Wiggins exchanged a tired look. ''Just read, Deidre. Shakespeare's been around half a millennium. You can ignore him as long as you want, and he's still gonna be there, waiting for you.''

''Awful blighter...'' Deidre replied.


	13. Chapter Twelve

The midterm craze has passed, there's no lasting damage, and finally here's another chapter. The plot thickens! As much as a plot of mine can, at least...

Chapter Twelve: Home, Sweet Home.

New London's inexplicably yellow sky shone down on them like a proud mother. Lestrade yawned, rubbing her eyes. At least there wasn't any jet lag to deal with.

"I'm not sure whether I'm glad to be back, or not. On the one hand: near death and teamwork. On the other: paperwork and Greyson. You know, it's a hard choice."

Watson boxed her ear playfully as he passed her her luggage. She hugged it to herself.

"At least this one didn't get lost."

"Dear me, that really would have been a bit much! Oh! Deidre's just emailed to inform me that they'll be over for dinner. Do you want to join us?"

"Mm! Yes, please. I want to get rid of those panties as quick as possible! ... And there's no food in my house."

"My dear Lestrade, that excuse lost validity as soon as we discovered that that is your flat's natural state. Honestly, get yourself a housemate who will look after you!"

"Haha! But then I'd have no excuse to come visit you Holmes, and then where would we be? You'd fall into a brown study and start shooting at your walls again."

He boxed her other ear as Watson hailed a cab. With a hurried "See you at dinner then?" the two of them soared off to Baker St.

"Huh." Lestrade stayed on the sidewalk, watching them vanish, thoughtfully chewing the inside of her cheek. "Huh." She repeated, and set off towards the bus stop.

She was climbing the perpetually dark stairs to her flat (the landlord had promised them new lights by last Christmas) and not paying the slightest bit of attention to where she was going when a man in a black track suit nearly bowled her over.

"Hey! Watch it buddy! Where'd –" But she was cut off as the man turned quickly, back-handing her across the face. Caught by surprise, and off balance with her luggage, she didn't even duck. Her head snapped back and she staggered into the wall. The man fell on her, his shoulder pinning her arm, and punched her, hard, in the stomach.

"Oof! Zedding-" She kicked him in the shins like a belligerent child as he got in a good jab across her windpipe, but he took off down the stairs before she could do more than gasp for air. She ran pell-mell after him, but as she turned the corner he swung out at her and what was already dark went black.

She came to with Mrs. Winterbottom from #42 hovering over her in a housecoat and hair rollers.

"Ugh."

"Oh dear, oh dear. Now Miss Lestrade, it's not good to go lying about, sleeping on the stairs. Someone might trip on you!"

"Sleep... what? No, I was... oh, never mind." Lestrade sat up, groggily accepting a hand from Widow Winterbottom. The woman had a reputation for being more than a little dotty, and Lestrade didn't want her getting any ideas about them all about to be murdered in their beds.

"Thanks Mrs. Winterbottom, I can take it from here. Can't believe I just fell asleep like that... how silly of me."

Mrs. Winterbottom nodded sympathetically. "It happens to the best of us. Don't let it worry you."

"I'll try not to." Lestrade turned to go. "Uh...by the way, do you know what time it is?"

Mrs. Winterbottom drew an enormous gold pocket watch from the depths of her robe. "Yes, of course, dearie. Never go anywhere without my watch. It belonged to my Gregory, you know. Hmm, let's see now, it's six o'clock on the nose!"

"ZED! Dinner!" And Lestrade hurtled, a bit drunkenly, up the stairs.

She washed off most of the blood and tried keep the bruises from swelling, but having been unconscious for three hours, there were few preventative measures she could take. Her left eye was a quite lovely shade of indigo and couldn't open past half way, her cheek was puffy, several bruises scuttled up from the collar of her shirt and her lower lip was split and grown to Angelina Jolienian proportions. Standing in the doorway of 22B she grimaced at what Watson would say, but found grimacing rather painful so opted instead to just let herself in and grin and bear it, as it were.

The Irregulars were already there, just beginning to tuck into what smelled like an amazing dinner. The chatter died away instantly as she came in.

"Man, I am starving. This looks stellar Watson, thanks so much!" Cheerfully she dropped into the empty seat, facing Holmes lengthwise across the table, and tried to fill the silence. "Sorry I'm late."

"Did you put ice on that, my dear?" He asked as he passed her the carrots, as though she was simply the working mother of a large family and he the stay at home father wondering had she had a good day?

"Did you put ice on that?! She looks like she got run over by hoverlorry!" Deidre replied indignantly.

"Inspector, what on earth happened to you!" Watson was on his feet, with his scanner out, tilting her head back and forth.

She wriggled in his grip. "Aww common Watson, I'm hungr-ouch!"

"Hold still!" He held onto her chin with grim determination. "And tell me what happened."

"Some thug surprised me in the stairs. Knocked the wind outta me, then clobbered me from around a corner when I chased after him. I was out for a couple of hours before a neighbour found me. That's why it looks so bad, I didn't get to them right away. It's really worse than it looks Watson."

"I'll tell you if it's worse or not!"

"Zed, why would someone jump you in your own hallway? Was he after money?" Wiggins asked from behind Watson's bulk.

Out of the corner of her eye Lestrade could see that Holmes was still grimly chewing on the potatoes he'd put in his mouth five minutes ago, while staring straight ahead and looking stony.

"Nah, he didn't take anything." She tried to sound bracing, but it came out choked as Watson chose that minute to shine a light down her throat.

"Watson, let the woman eat, for heaven's sake. Her face will still be there in ten minutes."

"Holmes! Really! She may need-"

"My dear, if she's made it this far all she needs is a proper meal and some tea."

Watson let her go reluctantly and the table lapsed into silence for a moment before Deidre piped up about her literature project and how the heck were men with donkey heads going to further her growth as a person, anyway?

"That reminds me!" Lestrade grabbed her rucksack. "I brought you something. You owe me big time kid!"

Deidre's eyes went wide. "Oohhh you didn't! I swear I'll never call you a witch again!"

Lestrade raised a caustic eyebrow. "Gee, don't overdo it."

Deidre looked unrepentant as she caught the tissue wrapped parcel Lestrade chucked her.

Tennyson beeped urgently

"Haha! Yeah! Don't open it at the table. Some of us are trying to eat." Wiggins grinned around a mouthful of broccoli.

"Ewww! Didn't your mother ever teach you to eat with your mouth closed! Besides no way I'm wasting this on you unappreciative buggers. I'm opening it at home, don't worry."

"Guys, it's just a pair of knickers. Calm the zed down."

Holmes barked a laugh. "You certainly didn't think as much when you went to get them, Lestrade. I seem to remember you looking absolutely terri-"

"Shut it Holmes."

The Irregulars left soon after dinner, when it became apparent that both Holmes and Watson were getting antsy about Lestrade but weren't in the mood for an audience. As they clattered out into the stairwell, demanding promises of the full story later, Deidre turned at the last minute, giving the Inspector a quick, one armed hug, before they disappeared into the smoggy night. Lestrade stared after her, bemused.

Watson made a grab for Lestrade's chin once again. "Do you think this has something to do with the attacks in France?"

Holmes leaned on the table next to Lestrade, his hands shoved in his pockets and his face scowling. "Perhaps. Though that might disqualify Notre France, after all that. I somehow doubt our attraction spans the channel."

"Mmmm." Watson replied meditatively as he smeared regenerative salve on Lestrade's lip. She screwed up her face at the taste.

"Not much to go on either, is it? Thick set guy, six foot, in a dirty track suit and a balaclava. Big nose though, that shows through the knit."

Holmes glared at his bay window over her head. "Did he say anything? Was there dirt on him anywhere? Anything Lestrade, now, any-"

"Holmes, relax. I know. Anything. There was nothing, and even if there was, that hallway's like a zedding cave and I wasn't exactly worrying about distinguishing features while he was punching me in the gut. And honestly, this could just be a random zedhead."

Watson made vague and disapproving noises while checking for concussion.

Holmes growled a bit and began stalking about, jerkily gathering up the necessities for tea.

Deciding his tea set was, at present, in more danger than she, Watson left her with a pat on the head and quickly took the cups and pots from Holmes and vanished with them into the kitchen.

Holmes harrumphed into his armchair.

Chuckling, Lestrade swung into the chair next to him and leaned towards him, chin in hand. "Geeze, what's up with you tonight Holmes? You're all wound up."

"'What's up with me tonight?'" He repeated incredulously. "I wonder! Sometimes, Lestrade, I..." But he broke off and let the sentence hang.

"You...?" She looked down, examining her fingers and smiled a little. "I'm ok, though. You don't need to get you knickers in a knot."

His lips twitched and she patted his arm as Watson came back with the tea. He gave them a knowing look which they both ignored, Lestrade rubbing her hands in anticipation of cookies.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

...nothing much to say here actually... enjoy!

Chapter Thirteen: Wait just a minute Mr. Postman!

Two weeks had passed and Lestrade was once again at Baker St., salivating in anticipation of Watson's baking. Aside from Watson's home-cooking however, the past two weeks had been less than stellar, as Deidre would say. Holmes and Watson and found an antiquated timer bomb waiting for them two days after Lestrade's mystery attack. Three days after that, someone narrowly missed plowing her down with their rental car during her morning run. Holmes had nearly been knifed by Track Suit Man on his way home from the opera two nights ago, and yesterday afternoon someone had taken pot shots at them as they left Baker St.

As in France, they'd woken up to find themselves on the national news even though no one had breathed a word. This time it was Notre France who was taking the blame. And Our Island who was up in arms. Holmes was forced to concede there may be ties between the two. Tennyson had been emailed and was currently going through enrollment records for Oxford, looking for links between LaMensange and the Our Island leaders.

"I just can't believe no one over here heard about all the zed that went down in France, they were making such a ruckus about it." Lestrade munched contentedly on gingerbread.

"And my assumption would be that no one in France is hearing about this. Not exactly good for relations, blaming these sorts of things on one's neighbours." Holmes replied.

Watson shook his head. "But... why are they even bothering with us at all? We're not exactly key figures in any political agenda. And you're right Holmes, if they wanted to kill us so badly, we'd be dead by now."

"Well, people are impressed by Our Islands'... proactivitiness?... concerning our welfare. And it's showing in the polls. Ridiculously enough You're quite the national celebrity again, Holmes." Lestrade grinned over brim of her cup.

"Hurrah." He rolled his eyes. "Any trace on the car that came after you? Or the hoverlorry in Paris?"

"The hoverlorry is still listed as stolen, but car's from Getting There Rentals out in Manchester. I asked a friend over there to look into it for us. I'll let you know when he gets back to me. And don't look so disparaging Holmes. Pete's perfectly capable of handling this. He's good. Trust me."

Holmes just snorted and took another biscuit.

"Anyway, I gotta head. I've got massive paperwork to catch up on. That Zellwigford case's gonna have me up 'til midnight with forms as it is." Lestrade grabbed a cookie for the road before gallomphing out the door.

Psyching herself up for a thrilling all-nighter in front of her computer, Lestrade stepped into her darkened flat with the best of intentions, when she heard something crinkle under her foot.

"Lights!"

An envelope poked out from under her boot. "What the..." Holmes occasionally wrote her letters, if he was very, very bored. But this wasn't his stationary and he'd have mentioned it when she was over, he was always antsy for a reply. It was a big brown envelope, like the kind that once held grade school report cards. She kicked the door shut, dropping her coat carelessly as she headed for the couch.

There was only one page inside.

Hey.

You know that luggage you lost? I know where it is. You know all that id you left in it, because you never pay attention to the simplest instructions? Well, don't worry, it's all still there. Along with that really remarkable pair of orange knickers. I took the liberty, however, of adding a couple sheets of acid and a film canister of ecstasy pills.

Now, at the moment it's being held at the address on back of this. If you aren't on your way to collect it by this time Wednesday, I'll ship it back to Britain and give customs something to talk about. Couldn't be good for your standing at the Yard, could it? Ferrying drugs? Oh dear.

I strongly suggest you take that big-nosed boyfriend of yours and his pet 'bot along for the ride.

Sincerely yours.

On the other side of the paper an address for a house in Barcelona.

"What the zed?" Lestrade stared, dumbfounded.

Ten minutes later she was back at Baker St.

"I thought you had enough paperwork to last you through the Leningrad Siege, Lestrade?" Holmes commented as she came hurtling into his sitting room. Watson took one look at her distracted face and scooped up his beloved tea cups and hurried them back to the kitchen, returning with a couple of hardy mugs.

"Yeah, whatever, look at what was slipped under my door!" Lestrade gulped the tea Watson poured like a drunk after a week of clean living.

Watson peered over Holmes' shoulder as he read the note. Holmes kept up a running commentary.

"Ha! They know you only too well... Orange? How shocking... Why do people continuously make reference to my nose? I have seen many much larger, I really must protest-"

"Holmes, your nose is _not the point._"

"What are you going to do? Surely you aren't going to go?" Watson poured more tea for everyone. He found it very therapeutic. "It must be a trap."

"I don't see what I can do. I mean, if it was in Britain somewhere, it'd be different, but we've got no jurisdiction in Spain. If they ship my luggage through customs I'm screwed, if it's a trap, I'm screwed too. Either way, right?"

Holmes was holding the paper so close to his nose Lestrade worried that if he inhaled too hard he'd lose it up said aforementioned feature. "Does it have an envelope?"

She dug it out of her bag and passed it over.

"I gather you scanned it for prints?"

"Nada."

"No DNA at all?"

"Clean as a whistle."

"Humph. And that's the problem with all these newfangled computers, there are no distinguishing features. The type is a bit crooked, I'd say a cheap printer. No fingerprints... there can't be many places selling this sort of envelope anymore though can there be?"

"They could have gotten it off the web, or from their grandma's old stash... who knows!"

"Well, I ask Deidre to look into stationary shops anyway."

"But will you go?" Watson repeated.

Lestrade screwed up her face in consternation and dug her toes into the rug.

"Barcelona's a beautiful city." Holmes commented nonchalantly.

"But I just took time off for that stupid Paris thing. Greyson'll never go for it."

"Technically, that wasn't actually time off, because it was a regulated Yard seminar." Watson pointed out. "He may feel a bit sorry for you, he knows how hard you tried to get out of going."

"Ha! Sorry for me, I wish." She squirmed in her seat. "But... would you guys come with me? It says I'm supposed to bring you too, but I mean, I can't just like force you to, especially if it's dangerous—oh, don't look at me like that Holmes."

The man's eyebrows were only barely clinging to his forehead in scepticism. "Like what? I'm afraid Lestrade, that we have known each other long enough now that pretending you would not force us out of here at gunpoint if you really wanted something, is simply not going to work. Sadly, we know you all too well. I do appreciate the pretense though."

She gave him a withering glare and he smiled benignly.

"What I believe Holmes is trying to say, is that of course we'll come Lestrade. If it'll keep you out of trouble, goodness knows I'm sure Holmes would do a great deal more than sacrifice a few days to traveling on the continent. And you know what he's like if he misses out on the action."

Holmes gave Watson a sharp look and Watson innocently poured them even more tea.

Lestrade pressed a hand to her heart and sighed gustily. "Such gentlemen!"

"Oh do stop being ridiculous, Lestrade." Holmes grabbed his tea peevishly, crossed all his limbs, and turned towards the fireplace. "And come by tomorrow at ten, we'll be packed by then, and can catch a hover train. Watson will order the tickets tonight."

"Yes, your majesty." Sketching a bow, Lestrade rolled her eyes to Watson, mouthed a 'thank you' and headed back to the paperwork she had no intention of doing. The only question left was: how to get this past Greyson?


	15. Chapter Fourteen

A wee bit of filler here, just to get things rolling with more than just Holmes and Co. (Still having trouble getting this site to recognise my page breaks so keep imagining!)

And a quick note about knickers for query, there are two pairs, one (orange) in her suitcase and therefore lost somewhere in Barcelona, and one (purple) which she bought in Paris and still has. Just to make sure everyone is up to date on the knicker issue:P

Chapter Fourteen: Taking French Leave

"Absolutely not. It's out of the question Lestrade. You've just been on a bloody holiday, swanning around France!"

"Technically, that wasn't a holiday because it was a regulated Yard conference. It was mandatory."Lestrade quoted Watson glibly. "You guys owe me vac. time like there's no tomorrow! I haven't had a holiday since... since... I don't think I've ever had a holiday, actually." Lestrade frowned, trying to think back.

"No matter! You have all that paperwork to do, and then there's this assassination thing to sort out. That is terrible PR, by the way. I've got hose Our Island hooligans on the phone every ten minutes, spouting nonsense. I'm thinking of assigning Doherty to it."

"To it? To the fact that someone is trying to kill us? I'd like to sort that out myself, thanks."

"'Fraid that's not allowed, personal connections and all that. You know how it is."

Lestrade smiled suddenly. "Good point, Chief."

"Good... pardon me Lestrade, did you just agree with me?"

"Mm hmm. You're right, I shouldn't be investigating my own assassination. Clearly the stress would be too much. In fact, the stress of being at work while in constant danger of my life is starting to get to me I think. I should probably take some time off. Paid sanity-leave, something like that."

"Paid...? Oh alright. Take your vacation time! Goodness knows I can't see why you all of a sudden want a holiday. As long as that moth-bitten PI of yours keeps coming to work..." Huffily, Greyson signed the leave papers.

"Mm, actually, I think Holmes and Watson are heading out of town as well. Oops! Sorry Chief." And Lestrade scrammed before he could do more than splutter.

* * *

Deidre sat at the library computer, biting her nails. What if Mr. Holmes figured it out? What if they didn't fall for it? What on earth had she been thinking sending the Inspector that letter?! 

"Awww zed." She groaned miserably. Why was she so impulsive?!

But it was just all getting to be too much, she'd had to do something! No one ever talked about it, but what if they really did get killed?

* * *

SC Morrison wandered along the sidewalk, past the old Deville place again. She really should go introduce herself... 

An old woman with a shockingly disfigured face was coming out the door. She decided this was her chance.

"Hello!" Morrison called out, crossing the street to greet the other woman.

"Eh, quoi? What do you want?" The old woman spoke with a heavy French accent, peering at Morrison suspiciously from under the brim of a rather large, and very ugly, floppy green hat.

"Uh... I was just coming over to introduce myself. I'm SC Akiko Morrison. I work in this neighbourhood, just in case you ever have any problems..."

"Oh. Yes. Of course. How silly of me!" She twittered shrilly. "But I... ah... must be going! Goodbye!" The woman turned abruptly and scuttled back into the house, her dress catching at her ankles and making her curse. "Ah, zut alors, ces folles joupes!"

What a strange woman, thought Akiko.

* * *

French: Darn, these ridiculous skirts! 


	16. Chapter Fifteen

Ta da, and another one. Enjoy! Haha and I finally discovered that little button that puts in page breaks. Don't I just feel a bit silly now. Nunnery idea stolen from Jeanete Wilson's amazing book Sexing the Cherry. Other crossovers are up to you.

Chapter Fifteen: In the Dark

They craned their heads back, shading their eyes to peer up at the building facing them.

"Why does this zed always happen to me?" Lestrade stuffed the address back into her pants' pocket, before knocking resolutely on the door. Before them was an old turn of the century apartment building almost as old as Holmes. It was, however, in arguably better condition with a fresh coat of sunny yellow paint and no signs of decay, while he stood in its shadow, looking like he needed a good meal and a shave. Above the door a sign read 'Las Musas' in curlicue, gothic-style script.

"What sort of place is this?" Watson stood, looking befuddled, on the doorstep.

"Just wait and see Watson." Lestrade gave a resigned sort of smile.

A woman in her mid forties opened the door, heavily made up, and wearing a brocaded dress so heavy she had no right, in Lestrade's opinion, not to be sweating like a footballer in the last quarter.

She smiled widely, rattling off a welcome, and ushered them inside.

The front hall was like nothing Lestrade had ever seen before. Red velvet and dark wood panelling, with thick, potted jungle plants crawling up the walls, made the place look like a Victorian study that had somehow got lost in the Amazon rain forest. And then there were the girls. They were everywhere, wearing everything from crinolines and corsets to leather and spikes.

Watson looked horrified. "A brothel!" He whispered, shocked. The girls were circling like sharks. Watson was backing away, looking scared. Holmes was trying not to laugh quite so loudly. The woman who had let them in took Lestrade by the elbow. "¿Quieres tres?"

"No, no queremos nadie. Buscamos ... ah... una maleta. Naranja, pequeña… Mira." Lestrade handed her the letter.

"Ahhhh, Inspector Lestrade. Why didn't you tell me? You'll need Gizelle. She is busy at the moment, I am afraid, but she should be finished in..." She checked her watch "Ten minutes. Follow me, I will have one of the girls bring you some tea. ¡María! Té, por favour, y déjàlo en paz." She pointed to a girl leering at Watson and shook her head, chuckling, before leading them out into a lavish sitting room. "I am called Señora Zidler."

Lestrade looked a bit at loss. Getting control of his laughter, Holmes sketched Señora a bow and, with an ironic grin replied. "Thank you for the hospitality, your husband is a lucky man to have such a house to come back to."

Lestrade elbowed him in the ribs but Señora Zidler chortled, swanning out of the room.

"Well, she is carrying the title Señora, one can only assume she has a husband stashed away somewhere." Holmes turned his grin on Lestrade.

"Oh God, I can't take you anywhere." Lestrade flopped down into an overstuffed armchair. "And Watson, you don't need to look so scandalized, brothels are widespread on the continent, and follow very strict laws. Heck, they're unionized! Those girls probably make more than I do."

Holmes collapsed back into laughter and Lestrade gave him a dirty look.

María came in then, carrying a tray covered in cookies and scones and a beautiful silver tea set. She set it on the table and gave Lestrade an appreciative once over. "Sé que los ingles son un poco remilgado, pero Inspector, si necesitas algo, ven hablarme." She grinned and slipped out, somehow managing to be graceful in a crinoline as wide as a small car.

Holmes turned to Lestrade inquisitively. "Something we should know?"

"No. And don't you speak Spanish?"

"Barely, I only understand what I piece together from Latin and French. However, should everyone in Barcelona decide to start speaking Ancient Greek..."

Lestrade chuckled as she reached for a third cookie, having decided that anything that smelled so delicious could not be poisoned. And if it was, well, there were worse ways to go.

By the time Gizelle got to them, Lestrade had demolished the entire contents of the cookie plate and Watson was seriously considering thievery (it was real silver!) as he eyed the teapot.

Gizelle was tall and thin like a needle, her blonde hair piled wildly on her head in what looked to have once been an intricate bun. Lestrade could sympathize. It took an entire pack of bobby pins to get her hair to do anything. Her face was pale and beautiful and three inches deep in makeup, but when she smiled sheepishly at them, she looked liked the awkward girl next door.

"Sorry I'm late, my girlfriend stopped in on her way back to the nunnery. She doesn't get many chances to sneak away (Watson nearly dropped the sugar pot at this point). Anyway, it's up in my room, if you guys don't mind following me?"

She didn't look dangerous, but then again, put Lestrade in a dress and neither did she.

They went up a back staircase, following Gizelle through a maze of hallways, every one of them with a different decor. Girls were everywhere. Knitting in stairwells, smoking secretively near the windows, laughing over cardboard take out boxes. Holmes palmed a few cigarettes from a pair of French brunette twins as they waited for the lift to arrive. Lestrade pretended she hadn't seen, but trod purposefully on his foot as he got into the lift.

"You're not Spanish though, are you Gizelle?" Lestrade turned to their guide.

"Nah, from Glasgow, but the weather gets me down." They were climbing the rickety stairs to the attic now, and Lestrade was trying to find of way of inconspicuously hold her ionizer at the ready, though Gizelle was chattering away like they were old friends. "Then I met Sylvie, my girlfriend. She was up for the holidays with her family. When they found out about us, they stuck her in the convent straight away. But I couldn't abandon her to that could I? So I followed her back down here and found Helga (Señora, that is) through a friend of a friend and got this job. Great pay, you'd never believe it. And Sylvie's just up the street. It's more than most people get." Gizelle eyed the ionizer quizzically. "Don't worry honey, there's no one up here but a couple of girls getting some sleep before the graveyard shift."

Her room was small and full of awkward angles, being tucked away against the roof, but the view across the city couldn't be beat and it was clean and well kept.

"Here you go, she asked me to give you this. Though why she couldn't mail it, I've no idea. But, you know, I owed her a favour." Gizelle handed them another brown envelope.

Holmes took it, with a glance at Lestrade.

"I... there must be some mistake. I'm looking for my suitcase... it's small and orange? I was told you'd..." Lestrade trailed off at Gizelle's blank expression, her own getting more suspicious. "Look, kid, I don't know what kind of zedheaded prank this is supposed to be, but I-"

"It's been moved." Holmes reached out and knocked Lestrade's ionizer hand down before she did something rash. "Stop threatening the girl Lestrade, honestly, I can't take you anywhere. Your bag's been sent on to the People's Republic of Slovenjia."

"The what? But it's got..." Lestrade's eyes bugged out. "Oh Go-od, why me?"

"Don't worry Inspector, they haven't checked luggage within EU borders for half a century. Besides, we'd have heard if something had come up." Watson patted her shoulder consoling.

Gizelle eyed the lot of them warily. "Look, she just asked me to give you this, said you'd be in the neighbourhood..."

"Of course. My apologies, there seems to have been a misunderstanding on our part. Do you mind telling me who exactly told you to give the Inspector this letter?"

"Sorry man, no can do. I don't know her real name, I met her through the internet. I think she's from New London, but I'm not even sure of that. The only time I've spent with her in person was when she was in Glasgow for some school program. And if she hasn't told you who she is, I don't think it's my place to-"

"It could be a matter of life and death." Holmes interrupted coldly.

"Death? No way man, you're confused, this kid couldn't hurt a fly. She's a top notch con artist, no doubt about it, but a heart of gold."

"Con artist?" Lestrade repeated, coming out of her stupor with alacrity worthy of wildfire.

"Oh zed... look, I really can't tell you more. She's the kind of person who likes her privacy. And I've really got to get back to work ..." Gizelle edged warily towards the door, eyeing Lestrade's ionizer.

"Of course, miss. Terribly sorry to have taken up so much of your time." Watson's impeccable manners were back up and running and he turned to go, with a pointed look at his companions. Gizelle took them back to the lift before turning and hurrying off down yet another hallway.

"Watson! Whaddya do that for? Now we'll never find out who-"

"Oh she wasn't going to tell us anyway. Besides, there's still the People's Republic to visit, and, if my hypothesis is right, we'll have plenty opportunities to research the identity of our mystery girl before the election." Holmes cut in before Lestrade could really get going.

"The election? What does that have to do with anything? Holmes, is there something you're not telling me?" Lestrade was picking up steam again.

"Lestrade, if I knew anything I thought you should know, I'd tell you at the first possible occasion."

"So, what you're saying is yes, you know something, and no, you're just going to leave me in the dark."

"Well, Watson will be there with you, and he's excellent company."

"Don't go pulling me into this! I'm having nothing to do with it. And how do you know I haven't figured out our mystery sender's identity on my own?"

Holmes looked delighted. "You have?"

"No, of course not, I'm just saying I could have done."

Holmes didn't care to deign this with a response and so the trip home was accomplished in silence as Lestrade sulked, Holmes sat so high up on his horse they could barely see him, and Watson was too relieved to be out of that building that he couldn't bother trying to play L.B. Pearson.

* * *

The sky was black and thunderous and rain pummelled the windows. It was a dark and stormy afternoon, and thankfully our Irregulars were safely inside, having their minds expanded and their personal growth lovingly nourished. 

"Check it guys, the French ambassador's been 'nabbed!" Wiggins scrolled through the news report as they sat in the back of the gym, in the middle of a school assembly. Deidre thought the headmaster was talking about the election, but she wasn't sure. She'd lost interest by the second bar of God Save the King.

"Wha'?" Deirdre leaned over his shoulder, not bothering to be discreet, as Tennyson pulled up the BBC on his own vidscreen. "You've got to jokin'! 'Oo nabs an ambassador!"

Tennyson beeped a few times.

"Haha, yeah, I betcha Mr. Holmes will come back for this one. Way too prestigious to let the Yard handle on its own!" Wiggins chuckled but Deidre frowned.

"Do you think so? Maybe Greyson'll wanna keep him out of it."

"Why? Holmes'll solve it and Greyson'll take the credit anyway! He's got nothing to lose. And who knows what the Yard'll do left to their own devices." Wiggins laughed again and Tennyson whirred in amusement.

"The Yard was solving crime before Mr. 'Olmes came back to life, and they did alright then didn't they?" Deidre was starting to look distressed.

"Haha, yeah, 'course, we're just kidding around Deidre. What's up anyway? You 're looking pretty grim."

"Grim? What? No. Whatever. We should probably pay attention." Deidre turned back to their headmaster, chewing on her lower lip.

Wiggins glanced at Tennyson who shrugged and buzzed quietly.

"Yeah, tell me about it. Girls, eh?" Wiggins shook his head resignedly.

* * *

Spanish: (sorry for mistakes here, my spanish is still pretty rudimentary) 

Las Musas: The muses, as in, the Greek ones.

Quieres tres?: Do you want three (girls)?

No, no queremos nadie...: No, we don't want anyone, I'm looking for my luggage...small, orange... look (at the letter).

¡María! Té, por favour, y déjàlo en paz: Maria, tea please, and leave him in peace.

Sé que los ingles son un poco remilgado, pero Inspector, si necesitas algo, ven hablarme: I know that the English are a little prudish, but if you need anything, come talk to me.


	17. Chapter Sixteen

Sorry this one took a bit, that whole school thing, gee darn, how dare it take up so much time! Enjoy.

ps. sorry for the kinda obscure Talking Heads reference in the title, it makes me smile.

* * *

Chapter Sixteen: This ain't no party, this ain't no disco!

Only Watson was awake when the yard memo came in about the ambassador´s kidnapping . He eyed it, nonplussed, before relegating it to the trash. Before he had time to quite sink back into Northanger Abbey another message arrived, this time about the outbreak of rioting in the streets. Then another, about an online bank robbery.

Good God! Thought Watson, thoroughly appalled. We leave the country for fifteen minutes and it all goes to pieces. Taking matters into his own hands, he sent the Irregulars a list of instructions. Tennyson would have the whole thing in hand by midweek, Watson was quite sure.

Lestrade awoke as they pulled into the terminal.

"Perfect timing." Watson smiled at her kindly, knowing all this travel would have her rubbed raw. But she smiled calmly and, without comment, gently pushed Holmes' head up from her shoulder where it had slipped and back onto the window frame.

"I've always wanted to visit Slovenija, tell you the truth. Especially Llublijana. It's such a lovely thing to name your capital city. Beloved." Her voice was quiet, slow and heavy with sleep. The sunlight coming in from above lit the long line of her throat and the hair that held her cocooned. Her face was lush and soft and, silently, Watson took her picture as she spoke, feeling that sudden, surprising rush of love that always sweeps you away at the most mundane of moments. He smiled in recognition of his own humanity. He also smiled to see Holmes wake up, but keep his eyes almost shut, so she wouldn't notice him watch her.

"Do you know much about the country?"

"Nah, not much. But my roommate in first year uni was Slovenian. There's a lot of 'em in Toronto. Most of them are fifth or sixth generation by now, but she was only first so Slovenija was still fresh in her family's mind, so to speak."

"Well, if our ... patron... is feeling generous, perhaps she'll give us leave to do a bit of sight seeing this time. It was such a waste to go through Spain without stopping at any of the classical art museums." Holmes stretched and smiled when Lestrade jumped at the sound of his voice.

"Zed Holmes! Don't scare me like that. Can't you even wake up slowly?"

He touched a finger to his cap. "My most sincere apologies Lestrade. I will do my best to wake up in a more satisfactory manner next time you are gracing me with your presence at such an hour."

Watson chuckled into his sleeve at the thought, hurriedly covering it with a cough.

Lestrade gave Watson a withering look. "That's a cheap word trick and you both know it."

Holmes just smiled and passed her her bag.

* * *

Deidre woke up to her inbox flashing accusingly from the corner of her desktop. "Ugh... wha..?" Groggily, she opened the email, expecting spam and getting:

'Honey! Are you totally zonk? Your detectives showed up and the woman pulled an ionizer on me! Thought I'd led them into a trap... she was asking about luggage! Kinda shook me, to say the least.

Anyway, hope you're doing ok.

Love, Gizelle.'

Deidre groaned in frustration. Zedding zed, Inspector, an ionizer!! Poor Gizelle probably fainted dead away. Zed! And bloody hell, Andraj!

Hastily, and in only so many words, Deidre sent off an apology and explanation to Gizelle before opening a new message.

'Andraj! The inspector and everyone should be on their way to you soon, but I just got an email from Gizelle saying Lestrade overreacted completely! Typical. Anyway, I know you think they're just coming to pick up a letter, but there's a bit more to it than that...'

* * *

Tennyson looked up as Watson's message arrived. He smiled behind his kerchief. Of course, he thought, what do you think I've been doing for the past 36 hours? Twiddling my joysticks?

Wiggins' face appeared on his vid screen as he turned back to his work.

"Hey man! Betcha just got Watson's message. Had a chat with Deidre, she thinks we should play down the whole thing, make it look like we've got everything under control, yeah? I didn't say anything but I think she's pretty shook up by all the zed that's been goin' down. 'Specially with Mr. Holmes 'n everything. I think she's overreacting, but I mean, 'struth, it'd be dangerous for them to come back."

Tennyson beeped out a few choice words.

"Ha! Can't hide anything from you: and it would be our chance to do everything ourselves. So, whaddya say?"

Tennyson just looked at him. What do you think I say?

Wiggins laughed again but soberd quickly. "Seriously though, the reason I called is 'cause that contact in Oxford you found got back to me: La Mensange went, yeah, fair enough, he checks out. But then, I looked into the leader of Our Island, Salman, and check it man: the guy's a ghost. I can't find anything on him. No school records, no personal history, no nothing. It's like he just flies in from Mars to make a couple speeches and then flies back out. And have you seen his face? Took me ages to find a picture of him. Now, pretty normal looking guy, bit of a beard, biggish nose, whatevs. But I ran him through a couple of those Scotland Yard ID scans you sent and if he shaved, took off the fake nose and eyebrows, look what happens."

Wiggins' face was replaced by a fuzzy, but clearly identifiable picture of LaMensange.

Tennyson beeped appreciatively. That's quite the double life.

"That's what I said. And a helluva lotta power, if he got France and England."

* * *


	18. Chapter Seventeen

Hmm, yes, sorry (again!) for how slow I'm being. I'll try to pick up the ol' pace here. Really, I just want to write some lovely fluff and keep getting stuck having to write all this filler business about kidnapping and robbery and stuff. Lame! Ha, anyway, I don't actually speak Slovenian at all (with the exception of greetings and 'Can I have two green clothespegs, please?'. Don't ask.) so the language games are down to a bare minimum this chapter. However, if you ever get the chance, go visit! (plug plug) It is such a beautiful country. Anyway, glad people are still enjoying it, and thanks, really, for all the wonderful stuff you guys have said. I appreciate it!

ps. I totally just realised I've never actually written a fanfic this long before so wahoo for 18 chapters!

* * *

Chapter Seventeen: Of Monks and Monographs

Once again, our fearsome threesome found themselves standing outside a building and staring up at it for all they were worth.

Lestrade huffed and crossed her arms. ''This is just ridiculous! First a brothel, now this?''

Watson, on the other hand, looked relieved.

Holmes quirked an eyebrow. ''Well, she certainly moves through a... varied society. ''

Lestrade just snorted, banging the old fashioned knocker.

A shaven-headed young man in brilliant orange robes opened the door, smiling in welcome. ''Dobrodan, prosim?''

''Uh...'' Lestrade glanced at Watson. ''What's he saying?''

The monk laughed. ''I said: Hello, how can I help you? Though, if New Scotland Yard droids come equipped with a Slovenian translation program, I'm very impressed.''

''Well, he speaks New Guinea Pidgin so Slovenian should be no- hey, just hold on a minute. How the zed would you know he's a Yardie droid?'' Lestrade glared, hands on her hips.

''Because I've been expecting you. Inspector Lestrade, yes? I'd shake your hand but we aren't allowed to touch women. My name is Andraj Bubnic. Pleasure to meet you. And you of course, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson.'' The young monk nodded to them in turn. ''Won't you please come in? Our monastery is renowned for its cheese gnocchi. You must stay for lunch. It's the least I can do to make this trip more enjoyable, as I'm afraid you're not quite done yet.''

''Oh yeah?''

''Lestrade, don't be difficult. We haven't had breakfast yet, and I can never deal with you on an empty stomache, you require too much stamina.'' Holmes ushered her into the temple ahead of him.

Watson muttered a sly remark about stamina under his breath and Andraj, the only one who heard, snickered into his robes. Watson was glad at least _someone_ appreciated his outlook on the situation.

Andraj led them to a large, sunny courtyard with a stone table sitting under one of the many fruit trees. Lestrade sat down, staring. She 'd never seen fruit trees in her life. Fruit was something that came prewrapped in cellophane, if it came at all.

''You guys... grow... your own food?''

''Yes, we are entirely self sustained, with the exception of flour which we trade for with the Buddhist nunnery on the other side town. But, if you would please excuse me, I have to go get what you came for. Your food will be here in one moment.''

''Well, he's certainly very polite.'' Watson watched bemusedly as Andraj turned a corner.

''I wonder if the nunnery here is anything like the nunnery Gizelle's girlfriend lives in.'' Lestrade mused with a smile.

''I doubt it.'' replied Holmes. ''Hers , I'm assuming, would be a Catholic one.''

''No, I meant... oh never mind. Though, come to think of it, what the zed is a Buddhist monastery doing in Slovenia, anyway?'''

''Human migration is an astonishing thing. I once wrote monograph on...'' Holmes let the sentence trail away into oblivion as two apprentice monks arrived carrying bowls of the steaming potato pasta. They eyed Lestrade like skittish colts, pushing her bowl to her from the far side of the table before scampering away, rattling off high pitched Slovenian at a mile a minute and nearly colliding with Andraj as he returned. He raised an eyebrow at them and they froze, bowing, before running off in the other direction.

Chuckling, he passed Lestrade a letter, just as carefully, but much more gracefully, as the boys had. She was beginning to feel like she had cooties. It didn't help that the letter was certainly _not _big enough to be holding her suitcase.

''Actually, I'm looking for-''

''I know.'' Andraj smiled. ''But this is all there is for you. And, though I know you will not believe me, this is really for you own good. I feel that she is going about it a very... silly manner.''

Lestrade gave him a look that spoke several novels on her opinion of their black mailer's 'manner'. Holmes only smiled a little, to himself, when he was sure she wouldn't see. He needn't have bothered, she was too absorbed in the letter to notice anything.

''What does it say, Inspector?'' Watson asked, only half interested, eyeing the gnocchi with connoisseurial appraisal. Would they give him the recipe?

Lestrade pouted, groaning. ''Whaddya think it says Watson? We've got to be in Turkey by Tuesday.''

''Tuesday?'' Holmes mirrored Lestrade's childish expression. ''I suppose a little leisure time would be too much to ask.''

''Well, you know Holmes, I am being threatened with massively illegal international drug running.'' Lestrade handed him the paper so he could peer at it to his heart's content. ''With all due respect,'' she nodded to Andraj in a tone that belied her wording. ''I somehow doubt our little puppeteer holds our good close to her heart.'' To Holmes she added. ''Just so long as that suitcase doesn't end up in customs we can country hop every hour on the hour for all I care.''

Andraj just smiled, in an aggravatingly zen sort of way. ''You would like some time to sight see Mr. Holmes?''

Holmes mumbled something incoherent as he made a show of sniffing the paper. Lestrade rolled her eyes muttering 'drama queen'. Watson came out his gnocchi dreamland and translated for Andraj.

''He's been wanting to tour the art museums. Ever since the Tate's was shut down for repairs last summer, our mmm... traditional art options are quite thin on the ground you might say. Though I wouldn't mind spending some time researching local cuisine, it's such a pleasure to expand my repertoire.'' He paused, grinning, then threw in. ''And I'm sure Lestrade could always go for a bit of continental shopping.

''Zed you.'' She muttered around a mouthful of gnocchi.

Their host nodded sympathetically. ''And it must be very tiring, always having to be on the move. Well, since you do not have to go until tomorrow, let me offer you rooms here. We always keep space open for travellers. As long as you don't mind the morning chants. We get up rather early. You could spend the rest of today in the city if you like, we haven't got any Louvres, but there is an excellent museum housed in the castle on the hill in the city center. Of course, you will have to walk. The whole center is off limits to all motorized vehicles.''

Holmes tucked the letter away into an inner pocket of his jacket, smiling. ''The very thing! Thank you, Mr. Bubnic, for the directions and the accommodation. That is a wonderful idea. Come along Lestrade, stop dilly dallying with your meal, one must make the most of these things.'' He hauled her up by the elbow, as she hastily downed the last of her meal, and the three of them trotted back out into the street.

The noise of the outside world hit Lestrade with a jolt after the peace of the inner courtyard. She rubbed her face grumpily. ''Jeeze Holmes, what's your rush anyway?''

He gave her a wide smile. ''Rush? I never rush. I just want to see the city. And it's not often we have the chance to enjoy each other's company in such a relaxing fashion.'' He took her by the elbow and guided them down the sidewalk, still grinning away.

She gave him a look of deep mistrust. ''Yeah, sure, Holmes. The last time you told me you wanted to 'enjoy my company' was when you tried to con me into doing undercover work on the visiting secretary general of the UN.''

'' You enjoyed every minute of it.''

''Oh yeah, and us getting reamed out by Greyson for _five hours_ after the fact was really romantic.''

''A true bonding moment.''

Lestrade threw up her arms in exasperation. ''Have it your way then!''

He chuckled. ''Did it ever occur to you, my dear Lestrade, that sometimes I simply like to... what is that expression? Deidre put it so well... ah yes, 'yank your chain' a bit?''

''Sure. And sometimes I just like dismembering you.''

''I only do it because I care.''

She growled at him, but let her arm be reclaimed as they walked, pretending to be too distracted by her efforts to endure Watson's blatant guffawing with dignity to notice Holmes' hands.

* * *

Tennyson gnawed his lower lip absent mindedly as his fingers scurried over the keyboard. He was dredging up ID codes for the computer that had busted the New England Bank during the kidnapping. Deidre watched over his shoulder, not really sure at all what he was doing, despite a fancy, multi-coloured diagram he had drawn for her. All she knew was that when he got the codes, and traced them back to a computer, she was going to have to do some serious B and E and get into said computer's hardrive. No wait, mainframe. No... motherboard? Well, whatever it was, she was going to break into it find the missing funds and the incriminating files and copy all that information onto a disc and anonymously send said incriminating little specimen to New Scotland Yard post haste.

Now, any logical person would ask, well, if Tennyson can trace this hacker thief, surely the Yard could as well. And, that being the case, why didn't they just let them handle it? As to the latter, I'm sure we all know why the Irregulars weren't about to let anyone handle anything, least of all the Yard. As to the former, let's just say that Tennyson had recently acquired some not quite legal, so hot off the conveyor belt it burned, technology from a really very handy friend who was a member of a Guerrilla group in Southern Kenya.

Bingo! Tennyson beeped out. We got 'em. Quickly he cross checked the codes with a physical address, and scribbled it out on a scrap of paper for Deidre. Thank goodness he had her and Wiggins to handle all that Real World stuff, it was so tedious!

''Wotcher!'' Deidre did a little dance. ''The inspector would blow a fuse for real if she knew what we were up to.''

Which is why, Tennyson remarked pointedly, you are going to do this professionally and avoid any stupid risks, right?

Deidre rolled her eyes. ''God Tennyson, what are you? My zedding mother? I am nothing, if not a professional.'' She gave him a wink and a wave and sauntered out.

Tennyson crossed his fingers and muttered something to the heavens.


	19. Chapter Eighteen

Trying to makeup for lost time apperantly! Enjoy!

Chapter Eighteen: Breaking and Entering

Deirdre uncrumpled the paper Tennyson had given her and checked the address one last time, peering at it nearsightedly under an orange street light. It was two in the morning and she was standing across from a large, dilapidated, pink stucco house. It was one of those classic mid-21st century suburban aesthetic atrocities that still clung to the edges of New London like particularly ugly hang nails.

''Huh. Well, here goes nothin'.'' Without bothering to look right or left, she crossed the street and deftly slipped over the fence. The yard, all three foot of it, was mostly overgrown grass and straggly shrubbery. Deirdre snorted quietly, unimpressed. What the zed is the point of buying a real house and having real yard if you're gonna let it go to waste? Space doesn't just grow on trees you know!

She circled the house twice, before deciding to return to the back where there was a low window leading into the kitchen. She climbed back over a particularly clingy shrub and, busy brushing herself off, walked straight into something rather solid.

''Oh ze-'' Deirdre looked up. ''Aw bullocks, it's only you. Don't scare me like that! 'N whatcha doin' here anyway? 'Sides sneakin' around in the wee hours of the night scaring the bajeezes outta innocent civilians. Bloody 'ell!''

SC Morrison looked less than convinced. ''Innocent civilians? Sneaking around? You're one to talk missy. You're coming with me. What on earth are you _doing_ here?'' She made to grab Deirdre's arm but the girl backed up, right into that shrub.

''Zedding bush! And keep your bleedin' voice down won'tcha? They'll 'ear you! If you bust this I ain't never gonna let you forget it!''

''I'm not taking orders from some teeny bopper twerp who is _trespassing_ and gods only know what else at 2 in the goddamn morning. I don't care how sick your aunt is!''

''You remember me!'' Deirdre pressed a hand to her heart in a mock swoon. ''And don't give me no sass about trespassin', I know your lot, and you ain't got no more privileges then the rest of us sad proles. If I'm trespassin' so are you. You report me, I'll report you right back and you'll lose this nice cushy job, ya got me? What're you doin' sulkin' around at this time anyway?''

Akiko blushed faintly in the dark. '' I was... er... I was... there's just something fishy about this house! If you saw the people who lived here...''

''You got that one right, lady. First off, it's housin' the comp that took the New England Bank to the washers last week. ''

''It... what?! You're kidding! We've got to go to the police with this! How do you even _know_ that? This is ridiculous! You can't be serious.'' She put her hands on hips and glared at Deirdre in a very Lestrade-ish fashion.

''First off, I am serious. Secondly, I'm in the uh... investigation assistant business on the uh... side... and thirdly, no way're we goin' to the Yardies with this 'til we got some solid proof. You got bubbles for a brain? All we've got right now're a couple ID codes. We need to find the money and its tracers before they get lost in the computer's... thingy...'' Deirdre trailed off lamely cursing her lack of techie lingo.

'''Thingy'?'' Morrison looked unimpressed. '''Investigation assistant business'?''

''Ok, so I dunno what the bugger's called, but Tennyson, 'e's a friend, 'e's a stellar 'acker, and 'e's sent me over with passwords and stuff and now I just gotta copy what I find and we're gonna send the whole shebang over to the Yard ASAP, though we'll prolly hafta wait 'til Inspector Lestrade gets back. Truthfully, I'd rather go around 'er, 'cause she's gonna skin me when she finds out about this. And, for your information I work for Mr. Sherlock 'Olmes, so yeah, I work in the investigation assistant business. Or, whatever it's called.'' Deirdre brought out the disk Tennyson had made her, and, twirling it on her fingers, pulled herself up to her full height and looked down her nose at SC Morrison. This was made difficult by the fact that Deirdre only came up to her shoulders.

Morrison looked at Deirdre consideringly for what felt like several ages. Finally, she sighed. ''And do Mr. Holmes and this... Inspector... know you go sneaking into peoples' houses in the dead of night?''

''Sure . Well... 'e does. And she tries to pretend she doesn't. Doesn't want us to get 'urt. Or 'ave any fun. And... well , they don't know about this precise 'ouse per se but ya know..they know about the general... occupation...''

''Uh huh.'' Morrison dusted her hands off. ''Well, we'd better get going then, eh? That is, if we're gonna get this precious information of yours before you go waking everybody up crashing through the shrubbery.''

''I-hey!''

''Didn't you say to keep our voices down?''

They got in through the kitchen window with no problems, though Deirdre did bang her shins on the sink's tap as she crawled in, but she managed to get over it with nothing more than a muffled 'zed!'.

Crouching at the base of the counter, Morrison held out a hand to keep Deirdre from going any further.

''You 'ear somethin'?''

''No, but what about an alarm system?''

Deirdre huffed quietly to herself. ''Is that all?'' She brought out a small gadget Watson had once sneaked her. It detected electronic activity... or was that all power flow? Buggered if she knew... within a thirty foot radius. ''Lessee... fridge, computer, computer, there's two of 'em? Lame. Heater... naw, there's nothing here. They musta thought the 'ouse was cover enough. Goodness knows it's bleedin' ugly enough. By the way, we're lookin' for a 2105 model Delta 595.7, whatever that looks like. ''

They crept forward cautiously none the less. After ten minutes of nerve-wracking door-opening and tip-toeing, SC Morrison found what sad 2105 model Delta 595.7 in the study, of all places! She snorted to herself. But then, why shouldn't bank robbers keep their computer in the study like everyone else?

''Come on kid, let's get this done with.''

Nodding vigorously, Deirdre slipped in her disc and started typing away. She knew enough about coding to find what they needed, but everything else pretty much baffled her. Really, it was a good thing she had Tennyson. The number of times she'd crashed her computer from downloading viruses and had had to call him in was getting embarrassing.

Minutes ticked by and Deirdre began to feel sweat form on her forehead, despite the chilly air. Zed zed zed, where were they hiding it? Ze-oh thank goodness. There the money was, in seven different Swiss bank accounts. And there were their account numbers, with the computer's grimy little ID codes all over the thing. Stell-ar! Typing furiously, she copied it all onto a memory chip and pushed back her chair.

''Time to book it.''

Akiko looked relieved, to say the least.

They retraced their steps to the kitchen, but as they were climbing out, SC Morrison slipped and knocked a very ugly plastic potted cactus to the ground. It didn't break, but it landed with a clatter that echoed like a death sentence.

''ZED!!'' Hissed Deirdre, yanking the older women out the window. They ran for it, pushing through the shrubbery with reckless abandon. Deirdre could see the street through the fence, she had her hands on the metal, she just needed to get out of this bush and-

'''Oo iz zer? I can 'ear you! Come out, come out 'ooever you are!'' A voice cackled in the dark as a torch beam swung around wildly. Deidre dropped to her knees in the bush, heart thumping as she recognised the voice. Fenwick! What a little skeeze. SC Morrison was not so lucky, however, as to have a shrub handy. Fenwick's light illuminated her and, momentarily blinded, she glared at him from behind her hand.

''Would you put that zedding light down? We...'' She looked around, noticing a distinct lack of Deirdre. ''Uh, I... am very sorry to disturb you... ah... Mrs... er.. Mr. .. I'm SC Morrison, I met your...wife..?... last week. I work around this part of town, kinda like a one woman block watch. I got a call from a neighbour saying they saw someone creeping around in your yard. I came down to check it out. Turns out it was only an alley cat. Ha ha! Good thing I didn't call up the real police.'' Morrison rested her hands on her hips, acting for all the world as though running about in other people's shrubbery at 3 am was something she did quite regularly.

''Er... oui... yes... yes, a good sing. Er... well I, ah, must be goeeng. Good night, SC Morreeson.'' Fenwick lowered his light and hurriedly shuffled back around the corner of the house. It wasn't until they heard the kitchen door slam that Deirdre popped back up.

''Thank God 'e didn't see me. Nice cover story. Now _puh__-lease_, let's get _outta_ 'ere!'' Ignoring Morrison's fierce look, she vaulted the fence and turned into the alley. As Morrison landed beside her, Deirdre looked back at the house and cringed to see Moriarty looking down at them from the upper most window. She shivered and tugged Morrison's arm, leading them deeper into the shadows and away from his stare.

Half an hour later found our heroines safely eating fish and chips in a noisy all night diner. Deirdre used Morrison cell phone to email a copy of the info, and the news of their favourite criminal mastermind, to Wiggins and Tennyson, all the while giving the other woman a highly edited version of the Moriarty-Holmes-Lestrade and Co. story.

Morrison whistled appreciatively. ''No wonder the Yardie doesn't want you kids involved. World domination's a dangerous business!''

Deirdre opened her mouth to make a snide retort when she saw the grin Akiko was vainly trying to hide. ''Yeah, well, if she'd just do a little breakin' 'n enterin' with me, she'd realise what a crack job I do of it and quit worryin'. You should drop 'er a line, let 'er know I got it all under control.''

The woman laughed. ''Sure kid. I'm sure that'd do wonders for my job. By the way, you said earlier that you kinda wanted to bypass Lestrade, with the information, that is. If you want, I can send it in...just say I got it from an anonymous source... you know, some schmaltzy, 'look how the neighbourhood trusts me', stuff.''

''A win-win situation. I like the way you think.'' Deirdre slurped the last of her milkshake, grinning. ''You know, you're not 'alf bad, for a copper.''

SC Morrison snorted, chucking. ''Don't overdo it kiddo. I can see right through your false flattery!''


	20. Chapter Nineteen

Alright, wahoo! Another one up, I am determined to finish this bloody thing!

I've also been waiting to write this chapter for eons (ie. shameless fluff coming up)! Anyway, things should start wrapping up soon, hopefully, if all goes as planned (a har har) however I kind of got carried away tonight, so this chapter just sort of meanders around without accomplishing much. Oh well, hopefully it's enjoyable meandering.

Chapter Nineteen: About Bloody Time.

A girl was waiting for them as they stepped off the transport. She held a sign saying: Inspector Beth! and her face broke into a dazzling smile as they came towards her. Tucking the sign carefully into her shoulder bag, she ran to greet them.

"Hello! Welcome! I'm so glad to meet you! My name is Seda. When De- she said you were coming to visit I very nearly melted! How exciting to have visitors! I have been told so many things about you Inspector Beth! And Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, I have read about you in English class. Everything is so adventurous!" She couldn't be more than 12, barely 4 foot tall, and about as sturdy looking as spun sugar, but she threw her arms around Lestrade's unexpecting waist with the familiarity of an old friend. Holmes and Watson both flinched away, hoping desperately that Lestrade had woken up from her nap in a good mood. Their jaws dropped as she patted the girl absentmindedly on the head.

Seda grinned up at Lestrade, taking her hand as she disentangled herself. "I can't wait to show you my city. It is the most beautiful in the world!" She lunged ahead into the crowd tugging a singularly unresisting Lestrade along in her wake. The Inspector followed gamely along behind and it wasn't until she was a good five paces ahead that Holmes and Watson realised they'd been left with all the luggage.

"Someone woke up on the right side of the seat." Holmes grumbled as they scampered to catch up.

"Must have had a good dream," replied Watson innocently. "And, taking into account her bed –er, seat fellow..."

"Watson-"

"I say Holmes, what lovely architecture! And, oh dear! Look at those two, really motoring along, aren't they? We should catch up!" Watson changed the subject with all the subtlety of a blunt hack saw and very nearly scurried in his efforts to catch up to the elated Seda.

Holmes muttered something ungracious and followed suit.

Lestrade nearly bowled Seda over as the girl came to an unexpected stop. "Oof! Watch it kiddo! I am waaay too disoriented for this!"

Seda only beamed up at her. "Don't worry, we're here! This is my Aunt Adile's guest house. My sister can't- well, our house is very small. But, luckily, there aren't many tourists at this time, so my Aunt is very happy to have guests. Don't worry! It's very reasonable. And, she loves visitors almost as much I do so she will probably try to feed you until you burst. She likes feeding people more than anything in the world. It's too bad she never had children; she would have been the best of mothers!" She bites her lip, momentarily quiet.

Holmes and Watson arrived at this point and Lestrade barely had time to register the sudden change of spirit when Seda was suddenly smiling again and hauling her up the stairs.

"Here is my Aunt Adile! Unfortunately, I have to go now; to pick up my little brother. I always have to go get him." She made a face. "I will be back later with your things. I know you are on a search. Anyway, I 

will see you soon! Please, enjoy yourselves!" She gave Lestrade one last rib-crushing hug and raced out the door.

Reeling in the vacuum of Seda's absence, Lestrade and Co. blinked owlishly at Aunt Adile. The woman smiled serenely at their bemused expressions.

"Please, don't mind Seda. She is very... excitable, but she is a good girl." Adile was tall, eye to eye with Holmes, and strikingly beautiful, in an austere, regal sort of way. Her black hair tied back, hanging to the small of her back, and her eyes were dark and heavy. Lestrade swallowed, feeling like a child in front of the school principal. "I have prepared three rooms, I didn't wish to presume." She smiled slightly. "You must be hungry, and technically I am closed for the off season, so please, come eat with me in the kitchen when you have unpacked. It is much more comfortable in there."

She led them up to their rooms, all white and clean, and looking out over the older suburbs of Istanbul. Lestrade dumped her bag in a corner and belly flopped onto the bed.

"Unghhhhh." She muttered into her pillow.

There was a creak from the floorboards and the mattress sunk beside her with the weight of someone sitting down.

"Yo, Holmes. Whaddya want?"

"I could have been Watson."

Lestrade sat up, smiling wryly. "Even my insensitive Yardie ears can tell the difference between your footsteps and Watson's. What can I do for you?"

Holmes gave her what, had he been anyone else, she would have classified as an appraising once over. Instead, she thought he was being facetious. "Nothing, Lestrade, I just came into see how you were feeling. You let that girl take an awful lot of liberties with your person. I thought perhaps you were feverish."

"Ha. Ha. Ha. Oh you're a gunny one Holmes." She deadpanned. "Look man, I gotta take love where I can get it. After all," she smirked, "you don't exactly give me cause for the warm fuzzies." Holmes snorted and pushed her over into the pillows. "See what I mean? If you treated me better I wouldn't have accept affection from strangers! Ha, nah, she was just... you know... kinda cute. Reminded me of... well, me, I guess. I used to talk people's arms off."

"Now there's a shocker." He replied acerbically. "Though, I'm less inclined to believe that anyone has ever described you as 'cute'."

"Hey now! Watch it buster. Are you saying I'm not cute?" She huffed dramatically and made a show of scooting away from him.

"I don't know what you mean," he replied, his voice so dry it put the Sahara to shame. "I've never seen anyone so violently adorable in all my life. Er, lives." He ruffled her hair as he stood to go, adding insult to injury. Pausing in the doorway he added, as an afterthought: "Watson and I are going down to eat if you care to join us."

Lestrade rolled her eyes as he vanished from sight. She had never met anyone who took so bloody long to get to the zedding point.

It truly was a pity that Aunt Adile wasn't a mother because she was, without doubt, one of the best cooks Lestrade had ever been lucky enough to mooch off of. Aunt Adile, for her part, was ecstatic to have found someone with so bottomless a stomach. It was the beginning of a beautiful relationship.

Seda came bounding in halfway through the meal waving a letter and grinning like a maniac. Lestrade took the letter with a groan.

"Bets anyone? I think it's gonna be Sweden this time." She glanced over the paper, her eyebrows rising. "Huh, well, would ya look at that? Andraj musta pulled some strings for us."

Holmes read unabashedly over her shoulder. "Two days? Well that's a pleasant surprise. Hopefully we'll get such a respite in Switzerland as well, Geneva is a lovely city."

"I only hope we can resolve this before the Chief Inspector gets too... worried about us." Watson remarked.

Lestrade snorted. "Yeah, worried, riiight."

Seda, meanwhile, was beside herself with joy. "Two days! Oh! We will have so much fun. I will take you to the Sofia and-"

"Seda, don't you think perhaps your guests will want a little time to themselves?"

The child's face fell. "Oh. Of course, yes, I-"

Lestrade gave the girl a little shake. "I'm sure we'll get all the time to ourselves we need while you're at school."

The girl's near-perennial smile returned full force, not having heard Holmes' muttered 'Speak for yourself, Lestrade'. "And then I can take you sightseeing in the evenings! That is perfect! Ohhh, let's start now! I can hardly wait, you'll love the markets-" She continued to ramble on gaily as the adults dutifully pulled on their jackets.

Aunt Adile held up a hand before they left. "Now, Seda, I want you home in one hour. It will be nearly dark by then and you must let them rest. You will see them again tomorrow." Aside, to Watson, she murmured, "One hour with Seda being, after all, nearly as exhausting as running from Istanbul to Beijing and then back again in time dinner."

Watson smiled, watching Lestrade switch into high gear, in an effort to match Seda, watt for watt. "Don't worry, Lestrade has Holmes very well, er... trained."

Adile snorted in a very unladylike manner and clapped Watson on the back.

Seda swung Lestrade's hand back and forth between them, skipping here and there to keep up with the longer stride, despite Lestrade making a conscientious effort to walk slowly. For once the girl was quiet, merely humming happily under her breath and every now and again leaning into Lestrade's arm.

"I'm surprised your parents let you come get us all on your own Seda." Watson remarked as he paused to take a picture of a particularly majestic mosque.

The girl shrugged. "I live with my older sister, younger sister and younger brother. My mother left us and my father died. I have always been allowed to do what I want. Ayla, my older sister, is too much worried about the younger ones to be able to mind us all. Besides I am very, what does my teacher say? mature for my age." She lifted her chin proudly, reminding Lestrade of a house proud matron.

"Why don't you live with your Aunt?" Holmes asked.

"Ayla and her don't get along. Ayla likes to have things her own way. Besides, she is a good mother. And the best sister!"

"But what about social services? Surely they wouldn't allow-"

"Soshil what?"

"Never mind."

Eventually, Seda's comparatively sedate humming and skipping became barely concealed yawns and a decided shuffling of feet.

"You know what kid, I think it's time we go back. You... uh, _I_'_m_ getting pretty bagged, all that travel, you know."

"Mm 'kay. Aunt Adile did say I had to-"

"HEY! STOP! THIEF!!" Lestrade dropped Seda's hand as she and Holmes turned, tearing after a raggedy character that had just snatched Watson's bag.

They soon outstripped Seda and Watson's efforts but just as they seemed to be gaining on the thief, he turned a corner into a packed market street, disappearing into the mass of bodies. Frowning, Lestrade grabbed Holmes' wrist as he faltered and made to stop, yanking him forward into the crowd. They pushed their way through the crowd and came out into a deserted back alley.

"Lestrade, we've lost him! Lestrade-" Holmes dug in his heels as she flung herself forward. "For heaven's sake, woman would you stop!"

Breathing in gasps, she gave him a ferocious glare, making to let go of his wrist. "Why? We could still-"

He opened his mouth to say one thing, but another thing entirely came out. "Because I'm going to kiss you. That's why." He blinked, surprised at his own audacity. On the whole, however, he found himself in accord with the general sentiment. He decided to go with it, and yanked at her wrist for a change.

Mouth open, she managed to get a flabbergasted "What the zed do you-" out before Holmes shut her up in what, a small corner of her mind believed, was a kiss worthy of a Hollywood classic. And, if they clung to the other just a little too tightly, or if their knees got just shaky enough that the wall was holding most of their weight, well, it was probably just because of a bit of heat stroke after all that running around.

Watson and Seda found them a few minutes later: breathing heavily and looking a bit red in the cheeks, but none the less peering around avidly, actively searching for the long lost purse snatcher.

"We must have just missed him!" Lestrade chirped uncharacteristically through vaguely swollen lips as Seda ran to her. "Can't imagine where he got away to!"

"Yes, he was right here a minute ago." Holmes made to clutch a stitch in his side.

"Oh! What a bad man! I'm so sorry! Oh, Aunt will be so unhappy!" Seda clutched Lestrade's hand as the Inspector made vague placating noises.

Watson was less easy to fool. Though, it helped that he came equipped with all sorts of extra-sensory ...well, sensors. However, being the compassionate soul that he was, he decided to simply bask in self-satisfaction and let them continue making fools of themselves.

Eventually, they started back, and Seda's lamenting turned unto more yawning. In yet another gesture of unprecedented gentleness, Lestrade ended up carrying her the last few blocks when she nearly tripped over the curb. Watson smirked to himself: ah, the things love does to a person!

Aunt Adile was waiting for them on the steps. She smiled, unsurprised, and took a now nearly comatose Seda from Lestrade. "Thank you." She whispered as they made their way past her into the darkened hall.

Watson made a show of complaining about his battery power and scooted off into his room before either Lestrade or Holmes even got the chance to say goodnight.

"He knows, doesn't he?" Lestrade crossed her arms as she and Holmes eyed Watson's abruptly closed door in bemusement.

"Mm hmm." He answered non-commitedly.

Suspicious, she turned to him, eyes narrowed. "Just in case you're thinking about zedding off on me, or getting all awkward or something, I'm just going to take this opportunity to remind you that _you_ started it."

"Glad to see you are handling this in such a mature manner, my dear."

She brought up a finger threateningly. "Don't you 'my dear' me Holmes, if you don't-"

But then he was interrupting again and her train of thought was derailed completely. She had a nagging feeling that she really should be much more annoyed with him than she was at being so blatantly cut off.

"Do us a favour Lestrade, and stop being such a complete twit." He replied at length, kissing her forehead and giving her a shove in the direction of her room.

Crossed her arms, she gave him a mulish. He sighed, mentally settling in for the dressing down he knew was coming. Honestly, you kiss a woman and suddenly she couldn't take the tiniest bit witty repartee.

She continued eyeing him in silence, and he crossed his arms, unwittingly mirroring her obstinate expression. "Well?" He prodded.

"Shut up, Holmes. I'm trying to think of a way to say I love you without actually saying it... unless you've got any useful suggestions-?"

He guffawed outright. And, with blatant disregard for the rating on this story, suggested: "How about: let's sleep on it, shall we?"

She blinked, visibly mulling it over before giving him a wolfish grin. "Mmm, yes. Let's."

* * *

Truthfully, I had no idea what rating I'd put on this thing, but as it turns out I think he's actually pretty safe...


	21. Chapter Twenty

Gah, sorry for the wait, life's been craaaazy. I wrote half of this in an airport. SO jetlagged. Anyway, we're into the final lap, hurrah! Though, kinda gonna miss this story. Ah well. Anyway, usual stuff, don't own, please enjoy, reviewing is good for the soul, etc. Lli

* * *

Chapter Twenty: I get by with a little help from my friends

Wiggins was a very amiable fellow, and, as such, had many friends. Some friends were everyday hang out and watch vids with friends. Others were get together and kick a ball around friends. Others were hang out with to please Jacey friends. And others still were the kind of friends who liked to weasel their way into high places just for kicks. It was one of these latter friends that Wiggins was having coffee with while Holmes and Lestrade were chasing bag snatchers in Turkish back alleys.

This friend talked to another friend who spoke the cousin of a landlord who slept with someone else who got them access to LaMensange's hotel rooms.

During a rally, Wiggins and the first friend, let's call him 'Ned', snuck in and gave the place a once over, checking windows , rummaging under mattresses, fiddling with wires, and attaching a couple of new fangled micro digi-projectors that Tennyson had got them to various walls.

Later that night, they returned. LaMensange was sitting, wrapped in a housecoat thicker than shag carpet on the slick faux leather couch.

"It's a bit funny, really." Ned landed neatly, having come in through a window off a hover-scooter. "You look just like some big crook outta one of them American spy shows. Couldn't you be a bit more original? Birkenstocks? Hand-knit sweater? Anything, really, man."

"Who the hell are you?" LaMensange's British accent was engrained enough to stick even now, impressing Wiggins and Ned considerably.

Ned grinned, his overly long body loping towards the couch like a vampiric giraffe. "Well, I could say something like 'your worst nightmare' or 'The Skull' but you can call me Ned. Keeps things simple. Imagine signing checks 'your worst nightmare', what a nightmare!" He gave a guffaw at his unintentional joke.

Wiggins rolled his eyes. LaMensange blinked in utter confusion. "Whatever kid. I'm calling security. Bloody wackos!"

"Ah, yes, well. Cutting to the chase I see. You could call security, only we've buggered your alarms, yes even the one under the couch. And, see those security cameras? Well, they're running a looped tape of you drinking yourself into a stupor. Nothing for security to worry about, eh?"

"Wh-what? What do you want?" LaMensange put his tumbler of whisker on the side table before it sloshed down his front.

"Just a bit of cooperation, Mr. LaMensange." Wiggins replied quietly.

LaMensange jumped at his alias. "Mr. Who? You mean that French bugger? Sonny what are you-"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. We know. Let's skip to the interesting bit." Ned poured himself some whiskey, gesticulating with his glass like a host giving a speech at a dinner party. "We are here, along with these gentleman-" He swept his arms wide and the Tennyson, watching the proceedings through a button camera on Wiggins' lapel, activated the holograms the projectors were carrying. A dozen burly, armed 

men appeared to crawl out of various dark corners and stood, rustling and rattling their guns. Tennyson was particularly proud of this soundtrack.

"-to make a deal with you." Ned took a swallow of whiskey. "We've got proof of your little double life, and of your part in the attempts on the lives of Mr. Holmes, Inspector Lestrade and Dr. Watson. Though, actually, whether or not you'd be taking a life in Dr. Watson's case is up for debate really. Still! On the whole, it's really not a nice business you're mucking about with, ethical semantics aside."

"Holmes? Lestrade? I don't know what you people are-"

"Mr. LaMensange, I thought we'd agreed to skip the part where you protest in vain for hours and make me late for my next appointment? Really, I had had higher hopes for you..." Ned shook his head over his glass in mock dismay.

LaMensange swore. "Next appointment? It's 2 am!"

Ned chuckled, shrugging. "My dentist keeps odd hours, what can I say? And I've got this cavity like you wouldn't believe-"

"Yes, yes, alright, fine. What do you want me to do? Money? Is that it?"

"Oh, now that hurts Mr. LaMensange. Do you really think we'd be so, so... predictable? (Though if you're offering I am a bit skint right now)"

"Ned." Wiggins interjected mildly.

"Sorry. No, Mr. LaMensange, we don't want your money. We want you to retire. On both sides of the channel. We want you to bugger off and leave everyone alone. Capiche?" Ned grinned. "And one whiff of you misbehaving and the Yard'll be on your arse faster than ... than... a barracuda on a fat, scantily-clad tourist."

"Dude, you gotta work on your metaphors." Wiggins rolled his eyes.

LaMensange gaped. "What is this, the Lion King? Where will I go? What do you want me to do? And really, why don't you lot turn me in if you've got so much proof? And why do you even care? Who hired you?"

Ned shrugged irritably. "In chronological order: First, no, Fox runs this show, not Disney. Second, don't ask me mate, I'm not a guidance councillor, go wherever you want. Third, honestly, what fun is turning you in? Why involve the Yard when we could deal with you ourselves? Endlessly more satisfying. And last, but not least, this guy here's a friend of the cop's. " Ned jerked a thumb towards Wiggins. "You've got 24 hours bucko."

"If it helps," Wiggins grinned. "I know a great monastery in Slovenia that's always looking for recruits. Great food."

LaMensange looked like he was about to cry.

* * *

As Watson, Holmes and Lestrade were saying their last goodbyes to Adile and Seda (who tried bravely not to have hysterics, but didn't quite manage it) Deidre was lying peacefully asleep after a long day of skyving off maths.

Ding!

She groaned, cracking an eye open.

Ding!

"Yeah, yeah, keep your knickers on."

Ding!

She jabbed the vidphone console angrily. "Whaddya- oh. Hey Wiggins. What's the news?"

Wiggins grinned. "Hook line and sinker, kiddo. Ned's got him on surveillance until we're sure he's gone but he fell for it. Thank goodness too, cuz the Yard would laughed us out of the building. But, bring 'em on home Deidre. It's gonna be alright."

She gave him a smile. "You figured it out, huh?"

He shrugged. "Just know you too well. Though, I don't envy you when the Inspector gets back, if she even suspects you're behind it, she's gonna have your skin."

Deidre paused and thought about this. "Ten credits says Holmes knows but left her in the dark."

Wiggins cackled. "Even money she'll land in Heathrow looking for blood."

"You're on."


	22. Chapter Twenty One

It's a long one this time guys, for me at least, but not terribly much happens. Oops. Had fun writing it though, man, do I like dialogue! Really, one day I will write something where the point is the plot and the dialogue is the icing on the cake, and not the other way round. Honest. Haha, oh well, enjoy! Lli.

PS. Thank you to DezoPenguin, for one of my most thoughtful reviews ever.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-One: Eyes and Braaaaaaaaaaains!

Geneva was nothing like how Holmes remembered it. But then again, he hadn't really been expecting it to be. Nonetheless, an unexpected pain whiplashed through him as he stepped off the train, and he discovered that very far down, in absolute secrecy, he'd wished there would be something, anything, recognizable still lingering in the streets. Funny, he mused, I wasn't even greatly attached to Geneva.

Perhaps something of this deeply buried longing showed on his face because Lestrade took one swift, sideways look at him and, pulling gently on the sleeve of his coat, said:

"Guys, seriously, this Christobel person isn't meeting us for an hour or two, let's grab some tea. I'd kill for a baked good."

Watson chuckled. "It's a good thing you keep so fit Lestrade, or all that pastry would have you looking like Greyson."

Lestrade huffed in uncanny imitation of Deirdre. "Are you calling me fat? I am the picture of health, Doctor!"

"Picture, yes I'm sure. But those rarely show clogged arteries and weak livers."

Lestrade made a face. "My liver could tie you in a knot, kick you to Antarctica and still have the energy to take on Moriarty in an Australian rules Quidditch match, thank you very much. And now, if you don't mind, I'm hungry!"

Holmes appreciated the show they put on for him. At least he knew, in his hour need, if nothing else, they'd do their utmost to keep him amused.

"Tea, I think, would be lovely." He picked up his suitcase and forged ahead.

"And pastry. Don't forget the pastry." Lestrade snatched her bag and jogged a step to catch up.

"I should think if one is having tea one is simply obligated to have pastry along with it. The 'and pastry' is like the silent 'k' in knight. Implicit." Holmes worked hard to keep his lips from twitching.

"Not quite how I woulda put it, but it works."

Watson rolled his eyes.

An hour, a half dozen danishes and two pots of tea later, Holmes, Watson and Lestrade set out again, the latter clutching her stomach in that singular, intestinal agony that comes of overeating.

"Ugh, guys, honestly, I am going to explode."

"I hate to say I told you so Lestrade-"

"Then don't. What was I supposed to do, Watson? I was hungry and they were so-o tasty. Blackberry is my favourite fruit, and these weren't even sims!"

Holmes filed this away for future use. Couldn't hurt, right?

Watson opened his mouth to make a prim retort, but a look of surprise came over his face and he closed it without speaking. Lestrade and Holmes glanced around, but seeing nothing interesting in their fellow pedestrians watched him expectantly.

"News just came in. Salman, leader of Our Island and LaMensange of Notre France have both mysteriously disappeared. Salman was supposed to speak today but when he never turned up some of his colleagues contacted the polic who searched his apartment and found it empty with a note saying "Gone to find sodding Nirvana. Won't be back.". Then, two hours ago, the head secretary of Notre France received a message from LaMensange telling him he'd gone off to "Find inner peace and inhabit his quiet place". How utterly strange that they should both disappear so suddenly. With the election just around the corner! And the messages? What to make of that. On the other hand, that ambassador's turned up. He was left at the front door of the Yard this morning, an hour before Salman was supposed to speak. He has been blindfolded since they grabbed him and spent the last couple days in the dark on his own, poor thing."

Holme hmmed in agreement.

"Someone blackmail them, maybe?" Lestrade looked utterly flummoxed.

Holmes hmmed again.

Lestrade rolled her eyes. "Well, hopefully we can get back soon and sort this mess out. And that bank robbery. Zed, we leave for ten sodding minutes..."

* * *

Christobel Danciu was waiting for them on a bench in a park near a fountain shaped like two flamingos doing the tango. There were other people sitting on other benches, but one look at the diminutive but eye-poppingly attired girl and our heroes knew who they were here to meet.

She picked them out just as easily. Rising to stand, her blinding magenta and canary yellow hair stood in spikes half a foot tall, bringing her to nearly 5 foot 2. Her clothes clashed with her hair and with each other, her long skirts trimmed with bells and patched with paisleys and plaids and floral patterns.

"I've heard of short-man syndrome, but this is a bit much. I'm gonna go blind." Lestrade muttered as the girl approached them.

Holmes had worn some outlandish things in his life, but even he was impressed with the ease the girl sported her menagerie of a wardrobe. He sketched her a whisper of a bow, the long skirts bringing out some vague remnant of the Victorian gentleman he had once refused to be. Straightening, he could nearly feel Lestrade's smirk watching his back. But he knew if he ever bowed to her, she'd blush and become gruff and caustic to cover her flattered surprise, so he smirked right back.

"Heya. Holmes, Watson, Lestrade?" Christobel pointed to each in turn. "Christobel Danciu. Let's walk. This neighbourhood is a total tourist treat."

She led them onto one of the moving sidewalks, leading them through a street of endless glass and steel highrises. As they walked the evening sun fell from behind a cloud, transforming the buildings into strange, spiralling, sci-fi funeral pyres. Lestrade caught her breath, the sun was a rare treat in New London.

Christobel flashed her a smile. "I've got some good news for you, amigos, you're home free. Message just came in from _above_." She made quotation marks in the air with her fingers. "I'm wining and dining you kiddies tonight and tomorrow morning sending you back to jolly England. Your baggage is going to meet you there, so I'm told. Management isn't big on the details, as I'm sure you've noticed. So, any requests? I know a wicked Thai place."

"Oh zed, not more food, not now." Lestrade wrapped an arm around her midriff protectively. Having got past the crucial bit, her brain then computed the rest of Christobel's words. "My luggage is ... England... they took out the...err, stuff? Just like that?"

She took a deep breath and Holmes and Watson, meteorologists that they were, recognised the signs of an impending storm. "Were there ever even-" She began, her voice rising dangerously, but suddenly, she pulled herself up short, her eyes narrowing in suspicion and what could be the dawning of a long-awaited conclusion. Out of the corner of her eye she threw Holmes a calculating, but not reassuring, look.

"Gee, well, isn't that wonderful news?" She finished jovially.

Holmes and Watson shivered a little, in fear. She'd been angry, and her anger never just went away. If it wasn't coming out there and then, it was only biding its time until it could really let fly.

"Wonderful! Absolutely fabulous-"

"Just fantastic, how unexpectedly-"

They stumbled over themselves, unable to pacify fast enough.

She laughed at them then, recognising their game. As Christobel looked on in mild confusion, Holmes felt the tips of his ears go red to be caught out at such clumsy ploy.

Lestrade turned to the other girl. "Well, seeing as there's nothing to worry about, tour guide away."

"Unless of course, you would rather we take care of ourselves. I'm sure this is an imposition on your time. Really, we are capable of looking after ourselves." Watson, ever the sympathetic.

Christobel laughed. "Nah, don't even worry about it buddy. Not every day I get to meet the undead and their AI sidekicks. No offense, or anything. Besides, nothing happening tonight that I can't do again tomorrow." She looped an arm through Wastson's, grinning, too happy to be offensive. "I don't suppose if you bite one of us, we'll become vampires or zombies or anything, will we, Holmes?" More laughter. Watson wondered how she had breath left to speak.

"Er, no."

"You sure? Bitten anyone lately?"

Lestrade suddenly became very interested in the passing scenery.

Holmes willed his ear tips to stay calm. "All the time." He replied dryly.

Christobel guffawed and began waving an arm in her best grandiose tour guide impression. "Well then, kiddies, let me direct to the building on your right. A classic from the turn of the millenium-"

Lestrade slipped an arm through one of Holmes', leaning over to bite his earlobe. "So, when ya gonna start stumbling around with your arms out groaning: braaaaaaaaiinns and kidnapping pretty virgins?"

"Don't think I am above pushing you into oncoming traffic Lestrade, because believe me, I most certainly am not." He muttered under his breath. "Furthermore, I can't be both a zombie and vampire. I am afraid it is either one or the other."

She let out a quiet half chuckle/half snort of derision, replying haughtily: "Well, you could at least _try_."

A small scuffle ensued as they pushed each other back and forth with shoulders and elbows, trying to inconspicuously force the other off the sidewalk. When Watson and Christobel glanced back at the noise, however, they were walking calmly, wearing identical expressions of innocence. Until Lestrade, taking underhanded advantage, elbowed Holmes sharply in the ribs, while letting out a long groan.

"Braaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaains!"

He pushed her into a nearby recycling bin.

Watson fought hard to keep a straight face, taking Christobel's arm again and turning back to face ahead of them. "Don't mind them, young love and all that."

Christobel blinked. "Young? Isn't he, like, well into his second century?"

"Young at heart." Watson replied, his lips twitching. "But please, continue. _I'm_ interested."

Christobel giggled, but continued with her tour.

* * *

Later that night, Lestrade watched Holmes feign sleep. She propped herself up on one elbow before poking him unceremoniously in the chest.

"This is all Deidre isn't it?"

He swatted at her finger. "I am sleeping. I suggest you try it. A truly remarkable pastime."

"Well, talk in your sleep then."

He groaned.

"Don't even start with me, Mr. I-can-go-forty-days-and-forty-nights-without-sleep-foor-or-drink. I'm not giving you any sympathy."

He reached out, pulling her down and kissing her.

"Better, but still not gonna work."

He pushed her off the bed and stole all the blankets.

She climbed back on and stole them back, pressing her cold toes to his shins in the process.

He jumped. "Don't _do_ that!"

"Well then?"

"Well then what?" At odds with his obstinacy, he let her rearrange his arms so that she could curl into them.

"Deidre."

"Yes. Of course. Charming child."

"_Holmes._"

He sighed."Yes, yes, alright. Now why exactly do you believe her to be the culprit?"

"Well, we know it's a girl," Lestrade ticked points off on her fingers. "We know the kind of people she associates with, if anyone would know all these guys it'd be Deidre. We know whoever she is, she's a "top notch con artist", and was in Glasgow for a school thing. Last year Deidre got her belly button pierced on a school trip in Glasgow, by the way-"

"She got her navel pierced!?"

"Stop trying to be distracting."

"I'm not, that was pure affronted Victorian sensibilities."

She laughed then, kissing the arm her head rested on.

"Andraj insisted that whoever it is was only looking out for us, and Deidre got pretty jumpy with those last few murder attempts. Speaking of which, please note that suddenly, now that Salman _and_ LaMensange have disappeared, we're all of a sudden good to go and the whole thing's just been a giant wild goose chase. What was the point? And, last, but not least, Seda slipped up, nearly called her by name." She turned in his arms to face him, eyebrows raised, challenging him to gainsay her.

"And how, exactly, do you propose she got her hands on your luggage? Run off with it before you loaded it, did she?"

Lestrade pursed her lips. "Ex-boyfriend who works as a baggage loader?"

He raised an eyebrow eloquently. "Perhaps someone wanted us occupied for a time? Planning a heist they didn't care to have us investigate. That bank robbery?"

"Say what you want, Holmes, this time, I'm right. I know it's her. And I'm gonna skin her if she's played around with my ID."

"Mm hmm, of course, Lestrade. Whatever you say."

She grinned wickedly at that, flipping onto her back and propping herself up on her elbows to look down at him. "What_ever_ I say?" Her neck arched slightly from the weight of her hair, black in the shadowy room, as it fell against the white of the sheets like some shapeless predator.

"And yet I recall you complaining of _my_ cheap word tricks." But, watching her tip towards him, he found he really didn't mind.

* * *

The next morning Watson was waiting for them at a table smack dab in the middle of the dining room. Holmes paled to think he'd have to sit with his back towards someone. Several someones. Good grief!

"Nice table." Lestrade commented dryly.

"Sleep well?" Returned Watson, unrepentant.

"Like a log."

"That's not what your vitals say." Watson replied innocently, pouring her some tea.

Lestrade gaped. "Don't read my vitals at the breakfast table! Besides, do you know what time it is? How could I possibly have good vitals at... at..."

"Eleven in the morning?"

Lestrade snapped her fingers in defeat. "Can't blame me for trying."

Watson patted her cheek and forced the teacup into her hands. "News from home came in a couple hours ago. Memo from Greyson said Moriarty was behind the bank break-in. He got a tip off from some volunteer police woman, one of those civilians, who got it anonymous from someone in her neighbourhood, about some sketchy Frenchman dressed in women's clothing who'd recently moved in with his son, a tall, dark and not so handsome man with a penchant for gaudy purple clothes."

Holmes snorted with laughter.

"Though, Moriarty must have been tipped off about the tip off because by the time the Yard got down to the house he and Fenwick had disappeared, along with the evidence. However, at the same time the Yard received an anonymous message with bank account numbers and passwords for several different banks across Europe; all of which had been stuffed with e-credits bearing the New London bank's ID 

codes. As well, there was a chip with files showing the route the credits took to get there, taken from a computer whose locator showed it had been at the same house the Yard raided looking for Moriarty. Someone must have copied them off one of Moriarty's computers before he destroyed it. The Yard has no idea who is behind all this free information but we're all supposed to keep our eyes open."

Holmes said nothing, but after a moment of borrow-furrowing thinking, he lifted his head, nearly glowing with pride. Boy, had he trained those kids well.


	23. Chapter Twenty Two

Ok, I think there's just an epilogue after this. Part-ay! Enjoy, my sweets. Lli

Also, points to everyone who remembers what is purple.

PS. Today's post script goes to Baku Babe, pretty much the lovliest reviewer ever.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Two: In Which No One is Very Subtle.

New London was still just as yellow sky-ed and densely populated as it had been when they left. What joy, what rapture.

"Well boys, here we are. Bets on how long we get stay? Anyone, anyone?" Lestrade arched backwards, trying to work out the kinks in her spine. "Hopefully a couple days. I seriously need to visit the chiropractor. Ugh. One more minute on that undersized hunk of junk transport and I _so_ would've started screaming bloody murder. Seats that size should be a federal offense."

Before either of her companions could commiserate, a familiar voice rose above the hubbub.

"Inspector! Mr. 'Olmes!" Deidre pushed her way through the crowd. "Watson!" In an unusual show of affection she launched herself at the unsuspecting Doctor, hugging him tight around the middle. Wiggins and Tennyson followed behind at a more dignified and manly pace.

"Heya, guys. Zed, have you missed some killer stuff man, or what!" Wiggins grinned.

Holmes raised an eloquent eyebrow. "So we've heard. New London certainly has been blessed with a rather unusually large number of anonymous, but upstanding, citizens."

Wiggins cleared his throat, trying not to shuffle his feet. "Err, yeah, I guess so."

Tennyson gave a few innocent sounding beeps.

"Whoever it was, they certainly did a very thorough job. Excellent work, if I do say so." Holmes gave his Irregulars a smile so full of pride, Wiggins blushed despite himself.

"Pretty stellar, yeah." Deidre took her face out of Watson's midriff. "Must have been some awfully smart 'uns to catch Moriarty at it. Bet it was _re-eal_ dangerous." She leered at Lestrade, knowing she was teetering on the edge of dangerous ground.

Lestrade smiled serenely. "Seems like it."

Deidre was immediately suspicious. "Since when'd you go all zen? Something 'appen we ain't 'eard about? A lobotomy, maybe?"

Holmes nearly choked trying not to laugh. Lestrade hit him on the back in mock concern. He was fairly certain he felt himself bruise.

"Ok, well, I'm starved." Lestrade firmly changed the subject.

"No, really? Pull the other one." muttered Watson.

Ignoring him, she continued. "So let's get back to Baker St., shall we?"

Amidst jumbled "Where've you guys been anyway?" and "How are your classes progressing?" and "Beep whirr beep!" they did. No one noticed that Wiggins and Deidre lagged behind a few minutes, or the furtive handful of e-cred. chips that was exchanged. Secretly though, Wiggins was still pretty sure any minute now Lestrade was going to flip and that'd be the end of Deidre.

As they made their noisy way up the stairs, Lestrade let out a triumphant "Aha!". Leaning against the door of 221B was her erstwhile orange luggage.

"What's your luggage doin' 'ere, Inspector?" Deidre asked all innocence. "You movin' in with Mr. 'Olmes?"

Wiggins gave her a look which said very clearly: _Don't bleeding over do it_.

She ignored him, because a terrible thought had just struck her. "Omigosh, no _wonder_ you're in such a good mood! You're sle-"

Lestrade raised an eyebrow in an uncanny imitation of Holmes.

Deidre came to a grinding halt. "-err, going on vacation?"

"God, I hope not. I've just done enough vacationing to last me years." She looked Deidre straight in the eyes for a moment before saying, very clearly, "Though, I guess, I can't blame whoever it was for trying. In the end, I probably owe 'em one, what with all those attacks going on. Amongst other things. Go figure, huh?"

"Yeah," Deidre smiled slightly, shyly. "You probably do. Err… what other things?"

Lestrade resisted both the urge to pummel the girl and the urge to hug the life out of her, and instead turned to unlock the door. Deidre was ok with that. She wasn't sure if she wanted Lestrade to know she'd been so desperate. As she turned to go in,Wiggins caught her by the elbow.

"She _so_ knows. Give me my money back." Wiggins whispered.

"Oh, gimme a break. She might suspect, but she sure as 'ell didn't land "looking for blood", now did she? I don't think so!" Deidre smirked, her usual strut back in place as she entered the apartment.

Watson whipped up dinner in what Lestrade thought to be an impossibly short amount of time for something so incredibly tasty. Honestly, the guy was a bleeding miracle worker.

After a few minutes of happy, silent munching, the table became a muddle of story swapping, from the Gizelle and her nun to Akiko the Yardie wannabe, who, Deidre proclaimed, would get along with Lestrade like a house on fire.

"You guys could go out and boss _everyone_ around! Double team 'em!"

"Didn't you promise never to bad mouth me again 'cause I bought you underwear? Or was that all just a really strange dream I had?"

"I promised never to call you a witch again. Nothin' else. I ain't stupid."

"Well, let's not infer too much there." Lestrade smirked as Deidre threw her a dirty look.

"You ain't gammoning me Inspector. Something's 'appened to you. I _know_ it has, and I'll find out what, don't you worry."

"I'm not, trust me."

Deidre just scowled. It was almost like Lestrade knew this inexplicable zen-ness of hers would drive Deidre up the wall way more than a reaming out over the luggage trick ever would. Clever zedding witch.

When everyone had eaten to bursting, then lounged around long enough that they could move again without _actually_ bursting, Watson collected the Irregulars up, hustled them into their coats and began herding them down the stairs for a ride home.

As she was going out the door, Deidre pulled up short. "Hey, wait a minute now, what about the Inspector? Ain't she gonna need a ride?"

Lestrade gave her a lopsided, wolfy grin. "I'm older than you are, so I get to stay up later. Sorry kiddo."

"That's not what I meant-" But Watson had already taken her by the arm and was leading her away. She narrowed her eyes in suspicion, but let herself be taken.

Lestrade blew out her bangs. "I forgot how much energy that girl takes out of you."

Holmes made a noncommittal noise, watching her from his chair by the fireplace.

She dragged her troublesome suitcase into the middle of the room, opening it so that they could both see inside. After rummaging through the clothes and various bits and bobs, she huffed, satisfied.

"It's all here, after all. I guess Deidre really did just want to get us out of the county. Poor kid musta really been worried." She sat back on her heels, chin in her hands.

"If it was Deidre." Holmes replied evenly.

"Oh gimme a break. It totally was."

He shrugged and replied. "They really _are_ rather shockingly orange pair of knickers."

She threw a sock at him. "Subtle, Holmes. Real subtle."

He caught the offending article before it hit him and tossed in back into the luggage. "A pity really, you looked better in red."

Lestrade sighed, and let him change the subject. "How would you know? I never wear red. Oh. No. Right, that dress."

"Personally, I think you should wear red more often."

"Haha, and purple too." She grinned at his confused look.

"Purple? I don't believe you even own anything purple."

"Well, then you'd be believing wrong there, Holmes."

"What on earth do you own that's purple? Mittens?"

"That, my dear Holmes, is for me to know, and you to find out." She zipped the luggage back up and pushed it under the couch, out of the way, before sprawling on the carpet in front of the fire.

"Well, I am afraid to say, my dear, but I am, in fact, the world's greatest detective." He put on a snooty voice, and prodded her stomach as she sprawled too close to his feet. "There's very little I can't find out."

She swatted his feet away, laughing. "That's what I'm counting on."


	24. Chapter Twenty Three

Please keep your arms and legs inside until the fic comes to a complete stop. Thank you for reading with Lli Airways, we hope you had a pleasant journey and that you visit us here again!

Tada! Complete! The end of an era. Well. Sort of.

Sorry for any loose ends I've left without noticing, random spelling errors and anything else unsatisfactory about this story. Complaints will be forwarded to management and duly ignored.

Just one last bit of the old Deidre/Lestrade banter to wrap things up. I love these two.

And thank you, thank you, thank you, to everyone who had a kind thing to say. You guys really made my day at times.

xo Lli.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Three: All's Well That End's Well

'Hey kid. Wanna ride today?'

Deidre nearly jumped out of her skin.

'Inspector! Don't _scare_ me like that!'

Lestrade shrugged, her lopsided grin decidedly unapologetic. 'Do you or don't you?'

Deidre eyed the Yardie suspiciously. 'Yes?'

Laughing, Lestrade led her away from the bus stop, to her cruiser around the corner. 'Don't worry, I'm not gonna abduct you or chew you out or anything.'

Deidre snorted in blatant disbelief.

'Did you like being abroad?' Deidre asked once she'd settled into the front passenger seat.

Her driver mused a little. 'All in all, yeah, I guess. There were some definite upsides.'

'Oh yeah? Like what? The art museums? The food?'

Lestrade smirked to herself. 'Er, yeah, something like that.'

Deidre crossed her arms, huffing. 'Fine, don't tell me. See if I care.'

'Alright I won't.'

Minutes passed.

Deidre broke first. 'Ok, I give up: why the ride, Inspector? Trying to win brownie points with Mr. 'Olmes?'

Lestrade laughed. 'Don't need to give you rides for that. Nah, kid, I just wanted to say thanks. I know it was you. And, though, I mean, it really wasn't necessary to tell me you'd put ecstasy in my luggage, I appreciate the sentiment, yeah? By the way, how did you get a hold of my bag, anyway?'

Deidre looked at her lap. 'Er, I may have bought it off a bloke at Hungerford who may 'ave bought it off a bloke who may 'ave nicked it from the baggage train. Maybe.'

Lestrade rolled her eyes. 'Right. Well, moving past your blatant illegal activity for a moment, don't think that just 'cause you tried to save our lives means I'll be any more inclined to let you help out on cases. Those really _are_ dangerous. And I don't want you guys dead any more than you want us to kick the bucket. Got it, kid?'

Deidre smirked. The Inspector may have guessed the half of it, but she still had no idea what they'd been up to in her absence. 'Sure, Inspector, no problemo. Just so long as you know we're still gonna help out all we can. Zed knows you yardies need it!'

Lestrade glared. 'Watch it kid, or I'll rip you up for stealing my luggage and then you'll have to give Wiggins his money back.'

Deidre gasped. 'How did you _know_?'

'Heard you two talking at Baker St.' Lestrade shrugged, bringing the hovercar to an uncharacteristically graceful stop. 'Though, speaking of knowing things, I gotta wonder who got rid of Salman, or whatever his name is. And tracked down Moriarty. Maybe your Morrison woman knew about Moriarty, she worked that patch, didn't you say?' Lestrade mused to herself.

'Oh, er, yeah. Maybe she did.' Deidre replied noncommittally, reaching for her bag. Opening the door, she paused half in and half out of the car. 'By the way, Inspector, I'm glad you and Mr. 'Olmes finally got it together. It was getting hard to breathe through all the sexual tension.'

Lestrade chucked a handy pen at her. 'Zed off, kid.'

Deidre dodged, laughing.

She gave the girl a rueful smile. 'See you at dinner, yeah, Deidre?'

'Uh huh.' Deidre smiled at the older woman through the window as she closed the door. The Inspector wasn't really so bad, when you got down to it. She chuckled to herself, pulling out her handheld. Scrolling through her inbox, she discovered a new email from Andraj.

Dear Deidre,

Mr LaMensange is settling in nicely. He looks terrible in orange, but I told him being aesthetically unattractive eases one's way down the eight fold path. And I believe our stark diet will do wonders for his waistline. In fact, I'm beginning to think that if we ever run low on funds and need to fix the roof, I may start some sort of ridiculous Buddhist instant Nirvana weight loss program. Wouldn't that be fun! It would be hard to keep a straight face with the clients though, I think...

Hope you are well, and that your three friends are home safe.

In peace, Andraj

Deidre grinned to herself, waving happily to Lestrade's hovercar as it zoomed by above her, heading for Baker St.

All in all, Deidre thought, strutting through the school yard, this was a job well done. Sure, there'd been a few hitches, but all's well that ends well, right?

Then she grimaced. Speaking of Shakespeare, her essay on A Midsummer Night's Dream was definitely not done and was definitely due yesterday.

She shrugged to herself. Oh well, you win some, you lose some.


End file.
